


Lovers' Creed

by ComeHitherAshes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Sex, Assassin!Aramis, Assassins, Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hate to Love, Kidnapping, Languages, M/M, Mercenaries, Mercenary!Porthos, Power Kinks, Prompt Fill, Smut, Spies, Spy!Athos, Thievery, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3459893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a time where deals are made, and used, and wasted, alliances are far and few between. It takes a special kind of reckless loyalty to pledge yourself to your job, to your sword, to an assassin, but Porthos breaks society's rules almost as often as he breaks bones. A deal's been made, and it has its roots in something far beyond a mercenary chasing a chance at love; hushed whispers of a man for whom rules have no meaning, and Porthos is the only thing standing in his way.</p><p>"<i>Piece of piss</i>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stay Your Blade

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/post/112433760858/i-was-thinking-about-a-fanfic-about-where): "I was thinking about a fanfic about where Assassin!Aramis, Mercenary!Porthos are both hired to take out the same target. Their target is the infamous spy Athos de la fere who disappeared without a trace. Aramis and Porthos are thrust into the darkest parts (of what ever country you pick) as they learn about Athos dark past, until they find him. feel free to change the plot and sorry its vague. Preferred OT3 relationship."
> 
> Thanks to [AliciaLuar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AliciaLuar/pseuds/AliciaLuar) for helping me with my Spanish!

> "A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrusts and longs for friendship."
> 
> \- JRR Tolkien,  _'The Lord of the Rings'_

"You've gotta be kiddin' me."

"The deal is as such, du Vallon, take it or leave it."

Porthos snatched up the parchment, sparse details and all, the candles in the corner of the inn flickering ominously. "'Course I'll bloody take it, you knew that 'fore you even came in 'ere."

It was their usual meeting place, the middle-class tavern where deals were done and lives were sworn. Porthos wasn't the only one weighing up risks and rewards, tonight; this place was famed for its patrons. If you needed a job done, you came here.

With at least one eye always on your wallet.

"Yes, well, your kind are always easy to read."

Porthos raised one solitary, scarred eyebrow. "I'll let you get away with that, Frey, only 'cause your boss is such a nice guy."

Frey sniffed condescendingly, but he still warily eyed the glitter of Porthos' hilt. "You mean because he pays handsomely,  _mercenaire._ "

Very handsomely if this deal was to be believed, and that always set Porthos' hackles up a little. If it sounded too good to be true, it usually was – and a big bag of coin for a simple smash and grab was definitely too good.

Still, it had been a while since he'd been in a scrap, and not just the fisticuffs kind, either.

It wasn't just mercenaries that roamed the night, nowadays; bumps and bruises were his forte, but death came from the shadows, and Porthos had his eye on a particularly pretty one.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm the piece of shit 'cause I'm the one holdin' the sword, but the guy payin' me? Oh, right pillar of society."

Frey riled, all flushed cheeks and affronted nobility. "Watch your tongue!"

Porthos made a dismissive noise, already scanning the parchment again. "Don't get your breeches twisted, I know my place in the world, an' s'in the gutters. So, this seriously all you're givin' me?"

It took a moment for Frey's ruffled feathers to settle, pompous arse that he was. "Be grateful you're getting anything after the stunt you pulled last time."

The grin that split Porthos' face was not as shamefaced as it should have been. "Rochefort should know better'n to hire  _my kind_ , eh?"

"I highly doubt he expected you to stage a coup – the master had to pay reparations!"

"Yeah, an' your master's master's master had a good ol' laugh at his expense, I'm sure," Porthos murmured, well aware of how the world worked.

There was always a bigger fish, and they were in a shrinking pond.

Frey bit his tongue for once, not rising to the bait. "It's important you know that this is just the first step, you do this, you do the next one, do you understand?"

Porthos frowned, wary of entering into a long-term contract at the best of times, let alone one that seemed so vague but for such high reward. "What's with this, why the cloak an' dagger bullshit?"

Frey's laugh was more of a tired sneer. "You're paid to do the job, du Vallon, not to ask questions. Now, you'll need the dagger to open the lock, but it's kept under a rotating guard, patrol dogs, and at least eight different traps."

"Piece of piss."

 

* * *

 

Porthos spun the ceremonial dagger through the air, the steel glinting in the gloom of his rented room. It was a pretty thing, filigree along the blade and a glitter encapsulated within the haft - expensive, if Porthos had any mind to fence it. Within a second, he had it clasped by the hilt and aimed at the opening window.

The faintest click gave his pursuer away, one that Porthos might not have noticed if he wasn't always expecting it, wanting what followed, like the crack that followed the lash.

"Fancy seein' you 'ere."

There was a pause, and then the curtains were cast back to let the moonlight shine fully into the room, throwing relief onto the almighty scowl on an altogether too attractive face.

" _You?_  Why are you here?"

Porthos settled more comfortably into his chair, happy to let his gaze drop to take in the slender swathe of black cloth. "Guess they thought you couldn't do the job, sweet cheeks – or is it Aramis, again, now? Can't keep up with all your nicknames."

"Don't you dare—"

"—Was quite fond of Night Fox, though," Porthos interrupted gleefully, "that one was cute."

Aramis' scowl darkened, looking like a grumpy kitten and not a bit the deadly assassin that he actually was. "Do you know how many people I've killed?"

"This ain't a competition, but if it was," Porthos flared a hand, using it as a distraction to hide the ceremonial dagger inside another weapon's sheathe, "mine's bigger."

Aramis arched an eloquent eyebrow, leaning into one hip that only pulled his clothes tighter against his sculpted form. "What, your ego?"

"We're talkin' about egos, now? Well, I gotta defer to you on that one – was the Queen a good lay, in the end? Or was she a bit pissy after you nicked her pendant?"

If Aramis had fur, it would have bristled. "The one you lifted off of me, after I spent the better part of a week getting it?"

Porthos took careful note of the fact that Aramis didn't deny his sensual escapade any more than Porthos denied stealing from a thief. "Hey, you got to touch the crown jewels, I wanted a little fiddle of 'em, too." Porthos laughed at his own joke, finding it funnier when Aramis dragged a hand through his hair, a step away from stomping his foot like a child.

"You're the bane of my life."

Porthos shrugged, quite proud of the accolade. "Then kill me."

"If I wanted to, I would."

"Yeah?" Porthos widened his legs, gaze rapt on the smooth column of Aramis' throat. "Bet I could make you beg for it."

There was a pissed off snarl the like of which an angry cat would make, and Porthos rose up to meet the lips that crashed against his, as they had so many times before.

Slumbered heat roared back to life, stoked higher with every clever finger that managed to undo the buckles of Porthos' armour, and Aramis' hiss was like a scorching breeze against his ear. "I  _hate_ you."

Porthos' dark laugh was cut short as he latched his teeth onto Aramis' neck; savouring the bone-deep shiver it earned him, and the minute loosening of muscles that could kill him without a moment's notice. Porthos might be strong, but Aramis was fast.

Porthos' hand delved into breeches as soft as silk, bypassing belts and sheathes and pouches until his tight grip earned him a desperate keen and a whispered, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

"You've got some right mixed signals, y'know that?"

"Shut up!" Aramis' mouth closed over Porthos', stinging nips and hungry licks, and when Porthos stilled to let Aramis work off his shoulder-guard, Aramis bit him hard enough to draw blood.

"You little shit." Aramis simply smiled, a stunningly sneaky smile, and any further complaints – or cries of adulation – that Porthos might have made were silenced by the sudden pressing of Aramis' half-naked body against his. "Suggestion for the next name? Quickfingers."

" _Madre de Dios_ , hurry up."

Porthos paused again, just to hear the angry noise he loved so much. "Is that you beggin'?"

"No, it certainly is not!"

"Shame, 'cause I was gonna listen."

Aramis hesitated, the fervent need for release almost outweighing his refusal to submit, but then the cunning gleam that his namesake was known for, entered his eyes. "But you only listen to things you want to hear, don't you?"

The question was coupled with a roll of hips, pushing insistently into Porthos' hand as Aramis' own trailed to Porthos' shoulders and simply held there, as if bracing for a storm.

" _Me extrañaste, mercenario?_ "

Porthos' groan was lost to the depths of Aramis' mouth, but the words spun circles in Porthos' head, his answer kept carefully locked up.  _Always, I always miss you, you magnificent, unbelievable creature_. Porthos was being played by the prettiest player in the whole world, and he was happy to concede this hand.

Aramis' laugh was delighted when Porthos grabbed him by the thighs and hauled him upwards, trying to taste the seductive Spanish still tickling Aramis' tongue.

"I hear my bounty went up again."

There was only the barest pant in Aramis' voice, so Porthos dropped him on the bed, kneeing Aramis' legs apart so that he could kneel between them. "Another twenty, yeah."

Aramis made a pleased noise at the number, legs bending at the knee until his thighs gripped Porthos', that little hitch to his breathing finally making an appearance when Porthos thumbed the dip of Aramis' Adonis belt. "You could live as a very rich man if you turned me in."

Porthos stilled, an alarmed tightening in his chest that had his grip gentling even as it firmed over Aramis' slim waist; protection in its purest form.

Their meetings were never just coincidence, not anymore. Porthos had been chasing him for four years, and Aramis didn't even know it.

Porthos knew just how to make Aramis come to him, where he was going, where he had come from, how to turn him from the suave little cat that he was into the spitting ball of messy curls and mewling cries that only Porthos ever saw.

"I'd 'ave to catch you, first."

Porthos just didn't know how to keep him.

Aramis arched, undulating in a slow ripple, a noise that was more of a purr than an acknowledgement coming from his bruised throat. "You couldn't catch me even if you wanted to."

Aramis threw his hands back, and he would have looked the picture of supplication except for the bands around his arms, the ones that Porthos knew with a heated intensity contained some very sharp knives.

Even now, with Porthos hovering over the lazed sprawl of him, Aramis was still deadly, could still escape.

Sometimes Porthos wondered whether Aramis ever thought himself as  _trapped_ , or whether he would be perfectly willing to cut Porthos up to get out.

As if Porthos could ever trap the wild beauty that was twining itself ever so sweetly around him, heart and all.

Aramis didn't need to know about the contracts on his life that Porthos had declined, declined and then promptly set about destroying, even going so far as to threaten his so-called allies if they bandied his assassin's name about.

There was only person allowed to tail that sleek shadow, and that was Porthos.

"I know I'm very pretty, but we hate each other, if you remember." Porthos didn't answer, simply let his lips fall into a lopsided sort of smile, and turned the reverential way he was stroking Aramis' hip into something more demanding, and Aramis' sighed gratefully, " _Por fin._ "

 _Finally,_ Porthos wanted to ask,  _have you been counting the days, too?_

Aramis' arms moved when Porthos wasn't paying attention, and quick fingers traced patterns over Porthos' stomach, somehow undoing his breeches at the same time, movements greedy, as always.

Porthos growled, one hand catching Aramis' wrists and pinning them above his head, bringing their quickened breaths closer together as Porthos leaned forward. "Slow down."

Aramis strained – just a little – against Porthos' grip, tilting his chin up to catch at Porthos' lip, licking at the tiny wound he had made earlier so that Porthos hissed. "Make me."

Porthos somehow restrained his aroused shudder, letting his weight fall more heavily onto Aramis to feel him wriggle, half in protest, half in pleasure. The sinuous length of assassin stilled when Porthos brought his other hand back and wiggled its contents, the moonlight catching on filigree and glitter.

Aramis didn't struggle, but his fingers creeped closer to his arm-guards, the muscles in his legs bunching with an ever-present preparation. "How did you get past the guard?"

"I  _was_ the guard, hired on this mornin' – apparently there's a bad case of dysentery goin' around."

If there was an appreciative gleam in Aramis' eyes, it was the lie to his muttered, "You're disgusting."

Porthos knew his teeth flashed when Aramis glowered. "D'ya like my leaving present?"

Aramis did move then, without Porthos even realising, and the thickly cut blade Porthos had left in the ceremonial dagger's place was suddenly pressed against his throat. "You almost got me killed!"

Porthos didn't flinch, the only adrenaline in his veins stemming from arousal, not fear. "Nah, quick little thing like you?"

The corner of Aramis' mouth twitched, inching higher when Porthos ever-so-gently brought the ceremonial dagger to Aramis' sternum.

Porthos placed it there like an offering, but his silent worship was mistaken for a threat.

"We both know I can get out of here."

"An' I would let you go," Porthos answered sombrely, interested by the softening in Aramis' eyes, even more so by the fire when Porthos held the dagger again and added, "but would you want to?"

If Porthos had been expecting – hoping – for some sort of heartfelt reveal, it was lost betwixt a Spanish curse and his name on a feline snarl. The blunt-edged knife was pushed harder into Porthos' neck, and with it, Aramis ground against his hips. "As blunt as you,  _idiota_."

Porthos grinned, choosing to take it as affectionate name-calling, and with it, approval for his hand to skim down Aramis' side and slide the dagger under his belt in a soft  _snick_ of tearing fabric.

Aramis bucked, the needy whimper at odds to the furious, "Stop doing that!"

Porthos needed both hands to slide Aramis' breeches down, reluctant to part with the dagger that Aramis was following with fevered attention. "C'mon, René."

Aramis scratched him, hard, down his chest, four piercing lines of pleasure-pain. "Don't call me that."

"But it's so pretty," Porthos rested his weight on the bed, on the hand holding the dagger, taking two fingers of the other into his mouth to watch Aramis' eyes glaze, "like you."

" _Bastardo_." It was a drawn out sound, reedy with effort because Aramis' hips lifted automatically when Porthos' fingers headed to his backside.

"Give a man a compliment, 'e calls you a bastard." Porthos heaved a sigh, timing it with Aramis' high-pitched one when his fingers breached Aramis' entrance, the ring of muscle gripping him tight before relaxing – possibly the only time Aramis ever did.

Porthos wasn't fool enough to hope that this, too, only he ever got to see, to feel. Aramis a slack, writhing thing, cheek pushing into the bed as if seeking something, and Porthos had to squeeze the dagger until it hurt so as to not have it be his palm that Aramis nudged into.

So as to not tenderly push the curls back from his forehead, before taking him with the almost-brutal force that Aramis always asked for.

Not a shy and retiring thing, was his assassin, but Porthos was careful in preparing him anyway.

One, two, three fingers, until Aramis' cock started leaking against the taut, tan planes of his stomach, and then Porthos withdrew, mumbling an apology against the inside of Aramis' knee when the only lubrication he had was in his mouth.

"Just do it,  _do it_."

Aramis' eyes were squeezed shut, his head thrown back, and so he missed the almost forlorn expression that crossed Porthos' face when he wished that, just once, they could stoke the fire as sweetly as the one burning a hole in his chest.

" _Fóllame fuerte, mercanario!_ "

Porthos' grin quickly overthrew him, and he did as his assassin bid.

With his palm as wet as he could make it, Porthos hefted Aramis' hip and lined himself up. "This the sort of blunt thing you were hopin' for, René?"

It was like sliding home, if home was exquisite heat, squeezing muscles, and  _Aramis._

Aramis' teeth closed over the band on his bicep, scream smothered by the leather, and when Porthos was thrown by the hot and heady guilt, Aramis flashed him a stare so furious that Porthos nervously thumbed the hilt of the dagger.

" _Más, más!_ Move,  _tu hijo de puta_!"

The first spit-slick movement was coupled with Porthos' breathless laugh, delight and desire flickering through him like a shooting star through a night sky. Spanish and sex, it was Porthos' dream, but the claw marks on his chest were delightfully real.

The second was heralded with Aramis' cry, one that edged on the error of pain, and if Porthos had any concerns, they were buried under the constant " _sí, sí, sí_ " that sang from between Aramis' bitten lips.

The third and Porthos was already too far gone, already too enraptured with the snarling wildcat underneath him, and he had to slow down, feathering his lips over Aramis' fingers when they reached up to scratch him again.

Porthos sucked one tan digit into his mouth, just to hear Aramis keen, and then he rolled his hips, measured movements that had him burying to the hilt before pulling almost all of the way out again.

He didn't want it to end so soon, because then Aramis would go, he would leave, and Porthos was as greedy with Aramis' time as Aramis was for Porthos'… well, time wasn't quite right, because what Aramis wanted – if Porthos' meagre translations could be believed – was  _more_ , and  _harder_ , and the most familiar,  _I hate you._

By now, Aramis was burbling, pleas and demands, too quick and too ferocious for Porthos to make out, but he had heard them all before, and knew that his slash of a smile was too fond for the filth coming from his assassin's mouth.

Aramis must have seen it, because this time when Porthos pulled out, Aramis twisted slightly, denying Porthos entrance; and it was wild, beautiful torture wielded by an assassin who played him like a fiddle.

"Aramis." The name was ground out between clenched teeth, the need bursting through him just barely restrained by some modicum of dignity. It shattered when Aramis smirked at him with bitten lips, lidded eyes almost covered by gloriously sweaty curls. "Fuck, please, Aramis,  _please."_

Aramis rolled them with the coiled strength that Porthos never forgot  Aramis possessed, and the world splintered into so much light when his assassin straddled his hips and thrust himself back onto Porthos' cock.

Porthos' heels threatened to drum against the bed, but Aramis' hands just pushed at Porthos' shoulders, holding him down as he tossed his head and laughed, victorious and vibrant. "You beg so nicely,  _mercanario._ "

Porthos was caught in the snare of a handsome hunting cat, and his words were a hoarse whisper, "Only for you."

Aramis' eyes widened, and then Porthos grunted as Aramis' body squeezed tight like a bowstring before snapping, his release pouring onto Porthos' chest as Spanish cries poured into Porthos' ears.

It was hearing his name amidst those lyrical curses that pushed Porthos over the edge, one hand clamping onto Aramis' hip to jerk more fully inside of him, the other hand driving the dagger into the mattress in a satisfying sort of metaphor.

Feathers fluttered softly around them as Aramis wilted onto Porthos' chest, his weight a precious thing that had Porthos abandoning the dagger in order to curve his arms around Aramis' waist.

"I hate you," Aramis panted against his collarbone.

Porthos closed his eyes in defeat and pressed a soft kiss against Aramis' curls. "I know."

Forcing himself to be content with this stolen moment of Aramis lax and sated in his arms, Porthos slept, not fearing a knife in his back or a garrotte at his throat, not from his assassin.

His dreams were filled with shooting stars and Spanish songbirds, and when Porthos awoke with the dawn, it took only a second for him to realise that his hands and his skies were both empty.

His shouted curse sent birds into flight, his fist finding only feathers and the hollow ache of his heart.

Aramis had gone, and so had the dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I will write pure fluff with no angst, I swear... It's just not this day.  
> See my thoughts on this prompt or ask for one of your own at my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com)!


	2. Hide in Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos scowled at the admiration in Aramis’ faraway voice, especially admiration when Porthos was a warm line against his spine. “Yeah, then why I ain’t I ‘eard of ‘im?”
> 
> Aramis’ smile grew smug. “Because he’s the greatest spy that the world has ever _not_ known.”
> 
> “Bullshit.”
> 
> Aramis shrugged, twisting the ring back and forth. “It’s the truth – or legend, these days. They say he still has a king in each palm.”
> 
> “Yeah? Well, I ‘ave an ace up every sleeve,” Porthos muttered grumpily.

> 'Power' is an ominous and sinister word in all these tales, except as applied to the gods.  
>   
>  \- J.R.R. Tolkien, letter no. 131, written to Milton Waldman.

A week of hunkering in the shadows, three nights in the rafters of a tavern, three cosied up with the rats in a barn, one even in the gutters he knew all too well.

Porthos' days were spent feverishly searching for any whisper of his assassin, an ear to the ground and one eye open led to an itchiness beneath his skin that he couldn't scratch. There was nothing, no René, no Aramis, no Night Fox, no new names with a flamboyant flair that would have clued Porthos in.

It was like Aramis had bloody disappeared, and it didn't take Frey's hounding to tell Porthos that something wasn't right.

He was starting to worry, and not just for his own skin.

The scratch marks on his chest had healed, and he missed them, missed the sting every time he washed, missed the way they burned when his blood thundered south after a useless day and a lonely night.

There was normally  _some_ scrap of news by now.

And yet all his usual avenues were off to him. His contacts amongst the mercenaries would tip too many off – and most of them still weren't fond of him after the last time he had torn through a tavern looking for the idiot who had taken up a contract on his assassin.

There was no honour amongst thieves anymore, and what was left was ruthless.

Dead ends and false starts littered his path, every possible contact exhausted just in the vain hope of getting a glimpse of his fleet-footed quarry.

Porthos had to make do with Frey's prodding, with excuses as to why he wasn't being quicker, with coming up with a story that had him biding his time, that he had the dagger and definitely hadn't lost it to a creature too quick for him.

Porthos itched, and it was trying to scratch that had him striking gold.

A sojourn to a brothel – strictly business, of course – full of whispers, husky laughter, and gossip of a woman who pined for a man in a mask, a man whose curls were wilder than hers and a voice that sounded like the honey he tasted of.

Porthos had scoffed at first – trust Aramis to draw more attention by wearing a mask rather than remaining inconspicuous because of it.

Knowing the capricious cat, the mask was probably  _all_ he wore.

The thought probably shouldn't have made Porthos smile.

A few gold pieces later – and one still very persistent itch – Porthos had a lead, enough of one to pick up on Aramis' tricks and follow the same path that his assassin had taken.

It made his life a lot easier when the little braggart told his captive audience of his daring adventures – even if Porthos often heard himself in them as  _the brute who got in my way._

Cheeky bastard.

It was only when Porthos was casing the joint did he have to suddenly rummage for his contract, eyes straining in the street's firelight as he scanned Frey's instructions.

How the fuck had Aramis managed to get two steps ahead of him? The Guard garrison didn't even need the dagger, this was the safe that needed the combination from the box that the dagger opened – and he was never signing up for this secretive shit ever again, it was too confusing.

No wonder the little shit had disappeared for a week, he'd been a busy boy whilst Porthos was running himself ragged looking for him.

With a snarl, he shoved the paper back inside his pocket and made for the servants' entrance, knowing he couldn't make the open window on the second floor that Aramis had probably used.

No matter the organisation, the night watch was always shit, and most of the time they were drunk off of their faces, which made for an easy infiltration and a nice way to expend some of the restless energy bristling in Porthos' fingers.

Four sets of snoring bodies and a startled serving girl later, Porthos was doing the other thing he did best.

Showing up where his assassin didn't want him, being  _the brute in his way._

There was a tension in Porthos' shoulders that he hadn't realised he had been holding, but it faded at the sight of a figure who moved like a dancer, movements graceful and sinuous – but most importantly, a figure who was safe and unharmed.

Porthos had to stop himself from sighing Aramis' name.

It was hard not to admire him, even if all Porthos wanted to do was shake him and demand he never scare him like that again. No, that wasn't right. All Porthos wanted to do was hold him close and request it in a whispered plea.

If he'd had the time, Porthos would have closed his eyes and called himself every kind of idiot.

Aramis was blissfully unaware of the silent self-derision in the shadows behind him, looking up only once when Porthos had to muffle the cry of a patrolling guard and lower him gently to the floor.

Aramis was the cat that Porthos thought him, pricked ears and twitching whiskers, alert eyes passing right over Porthos hunkered by the door before returning to his task again.

Porthos sighed when he saw the ceremonial dagger in Aramis' quick fingers, too pretty to be used for so base a task as cutting some rope.

The dagger was, too, and Porthos wasn't sure whether he was pleased to see it or not.

He had offered it to him, after all.

He just hadn't expected the tricky little shit to steal it from him.

As Porthos had expected, that itch started up again, his gaze hungrily watching Aramis perform some frankly insane acrobatic stunts as he tried to reach the far wall without touching the safety measures.

Crushed glass underfoot was a bitch, but it was the risk of disturbing of it and leaving a footprint that posed the real problem. Being discovered too early ruined an early getaway, and Aramis was taking great pains to be careful.

Porthos probably could have told him that the guards were all passed out downstairs and there was no need for the theatrics but, well…

It had been a gruelling week, and the view was nice.

It got nicer when Aramis had been about to leave by way of windowsill, but paused, curiosity a glimmer in his small smile as he passed another locked door.

Porthos stifled his laugh when Aramis set about entering the office of the captain of the guard.

What a surprise, an assassin that liked to play with fire – the fire of gold pieces if the way Aramis immediately headed for the desk was any indication.

Porthos let the door close behind him with a click. "Y'know greed's a sin, right?"

To Aramis' credit, he barely stiffened, and there was only a hint of strain under the sing-song, "So is murder, but for you I'll make an exception."

"You say the sweetest things."

Aramis finally turned to give him a smile that showed his sharp little teeth. "Not as sweet as yours."

It was Porthos' turn to stiffen, his own words echoing in his head – words that had edged ever so dangerously on words of love.

_Only for you._

Porthos snorted, trying to play it off as nothing, as if he often itched for assassins that could cut his throat without a second thought.

As if he often wanted to leave the shadows behind just to bask in the fire of those eyes.

"That's mine," he muttered with a nod at the ceremonial dagger which had flicked tauntingly into Aramis' hands.

"Take it." Aramis shrugged nonchalantly, and before Porthos could blink, the hilt thudded an inch away from his head, a spike of silver that spiked adrenaline with it.

The itch grew unbearable, and with it, his voice lowered to something he tried to keep chiding. "You've marked that."

Aramis smirked, bracing his now empty palms on the table behind him, the position pulling his clothes tight against his agile form. "Jealous?"

Porthos worked the dagger free and, keeping his body language open, strolled to Aramis' side and placed the hilt back in his hands. It took an insistent nudge at Aramis' fingers before he took it, but he did and Porthos returned to the door with Aramis' wary and confused eyes on his back.

Porthos did so enjoy tormenting him.

"What was in the safe?"

Aramis' answer was immediate and predictable, keeping an emotional distance between them as Porthos kept the physical. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Are you gonna make this difficult?"

"Of course, why deviate from our usual dance?" Aramis oozed confidence, but Porthos suspected it was habit more than anything, just as their barbs were.

A deadly dance, perhaps, but a dance nonetheless, and one that Porthos enjoyed more than he probably should, but any chance to get up close and personal with Aramis had to be grabbed with both hands, because he was a slippery fuck.

"Fair enough, wasn't expecting a ring, though."

At that, Aramis did fully stiffen, his hand attempting to surreptitiously delve into his pocket just at the same time that Porthos withdrew from his, a small gold band in his palm. "Not exactly a sparkler, is it?"

Aramis hissed, empty hands fisting at his sides. "How?"

Porthos grinned lazily. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

One day he would tell Aramis to line his pockets and weigh down his hems to keep frisking fingers clear, but he would be shooting himself in the foot if he did it now – he needed all of his tricks to keep his skin in one piece where Aramis was involved.

Said deadly assassin lost his anger to curiosity, rocking forwards on his toes in a movement that shouldn't have been ridiculously endearing. "I haven't seen it in the light yet, let me see."

Porthos gave him a disbelieving look before turning his shoulder and holding the ring in a shaft of moonlight. It was a plain little thing, looking more like a signet ring than anything important. A small flower was engraved on one side, and on the inside were initials.

"A-D-L-F mean anythin' to you?"

Aramis had ducked under his arm in an instant, his back almost against Porthos' chest as he snatched the ring from his fingers to examine it.

Porthos looked down in amusement when Aramis' jaw dropped, and rested his chin on one slender shoulder to see what had gotten the little cat so het up.

"This must be Athos' ring," Aramis murmured quietly, excitement a shiver in his words.

Porthos frowned, using the distraction to slip his palm to Aramis' waist, that itch lessening with every inch they touched. "Athos who?"

Aramis shot him an unimpressed look. "Athos de la Fère? Only the greatest spy that France has ever known."

Porthos scowled at the admiration in Aramis' faraway voice, especially admiration when Porthos was a warm line against his spine. "Yeah, then why I ain't I 'eard of 'im?"

Aramis' smile grew smug. "Because he's the greatest spy that the worldhas ever  _not_ known."

"Bullshit."

Aramis shrugged, twisting the ring back and forth. "It's the truth – or legend, these days. They say he still has a king in each palm."

"Yeah? Well, I 'ave an ace up every sleeve," Porthos muttered grumpily, a little pissed off at falling short to a man that was probably well into his fifties by now.

With an idle twist of his wrist, Aramis slipped the ring into his pocket in a move that might have been unobtrusive to anyone other than Porthos. "What, exactly, d'you think you're doin'?"

Aramis walked away, and Porthos let him, because this was uncertain ground and it was dangerous to deny Aramis anything. "I'm going to fence it."

It was also dangerous to  _allow_ him anything.

Porthos grabbed an arm, spinning Aramis around until they were face-to-face. "Are you  _crazy?_ You want to fence a legendary spy's ring?"

"Of course, why, what would you do with it?"

"Give it back?"

Aramis snatched his arm back, offering Porthos his shoulder as if Aramis was the only one with any clout in this room and Porthos stood no chance of stopping him. "Are  _you_ crazy? No one's heard from him in years, the rumour is that he's dead."

Porthos growled, "He's a spy, 'e's probably retired if 'e's got any sense – unlike you."

"With the loot from this I  _can_ retire," Aramis insisted, tone growing almost sulky. "I can stop looking over my shoulder for  _you_ every five minutes."

Porthos paused, stunned at hearing Aramis admit to actually thinking about him when they were apart, even if it was through complaint. This was the closest they had come to  _chatting_ than ever before, and Porthos was loath to ruin it. "Why don't we just leave it here?"

Aramis hummed in feigned consideration. "Oh, yes, of course, fantastic compromise except, how about,  _no?_ "

"You're gonna end up on this la Fère's wishlist, Aramis," Porthos warned, wishing he would just drop it, drop everything.

Retirement wasn't a bad idea this early on in the game, especially with Aramis getting the reputation that he had.

But Aramis simply shrugged. "Good, maybe I'll meet him."

"No, you won't," Porthos said, trying to force the deadly point home, "he'll send someone after you."

"I've evaded death this long, one more contract won't hurt," Aramis replied cockily, blissfully unaware of exactly how many of those contracts were over before they had even begun.

"Aramis—"

"Why do you care, is it because you want the ring? You can't have it."

"I don't give a shit about the ring!" Porthos admitted angrily, and when Aramis just stared in confusion at him, he turned away and pinched hard at his temples. "For fuck's sake, Aramis."

There was silence but for Porthos' angry breaths, the ones that he had to take in case he crushed Aramis' mouth to his and tell him everything. If it had just been every sordid detail, that would have been something, would have been acceptable, but it wasn't.

It wasn't just the sordid details.

It was the other ones, the softer ones, the ones that made him worry when Aramis wasn't there, the ones that made his chest ache when Aramis was.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Aramis frowning in thought at him.

"How did you know it would be here?"

Porthos sighed, relegating himself to tactical conversation if he was going to stand any chance of convincing Aramis to stop this suicide mission. "Was gonna ask you the same thing, it was in my contract."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "You have it so easy,  _mercanario._ "

Porthos raised an eyebrow, tempted to tug on Aramis' curls and growl,  _you make it bloody difficult for me._

Aramis continued blithely on. "I had to hunt down the man who wanted the dagger, from there it was finding who controlled his men, a shrewish-looking man named—"

"Frey," Porthos finished at the same time, and Aramis immediately stepped away, eyes narrowing.

"You've been following me?"

"No," Porthos muttered, allowing the lie because that important little fact he had definitely not known was concerning. "He's my contractor. Why the hell did he set us both up to do this?"

"Insurance?"

"His boss ain't that rich, an' I got promised a pretty penny for this."

"As did I," Aramis mused, fingers drumming on the desk. "Someone really wants that ring."

"An' they're willin' to pay double just to find it."

Aramis' fingers skimmed a knife hilt as he glanced over Porthos' shoulder. "Who knows who else they've paid to do this?"

Porthos felt his shoulder blades itch even though he knew he had knocked the guards out, but something wasn't right. Things didn't add up, and they would never have known if it hadn't been the two of them doing it, their continued dance insisting that the details came out.

It was a fact that Porthos was slightly grateful for.

Porthos looked up, confident in the knowledge that Aramis was watching his back, and content with the knowledge that it would only last for as long as this mission did.

He just had to make it last a long time.

"You wanna meet this Athos so bad? Let's find 'im, give 'im his ring back." Porthos shrugged. "Never know, 'e might give you somethin' for it."

Aramis eyed him up and down, disbelief painfully obvious on his face. "Work together?"

"Sure."

Aramis leaned into a hip, gaze forcefully disdainful. "Why would I want to do something like that?"

Porthos kept his tone light but his stance assured. "'Cause I ain't lettin' you outta this room otherwise."

"I could get past—"

"—past me, yeah, I know," Porthos interrupted Aramis' usual arrogant rejoinder with tired insistence. "But that's not what this is about."

Aramis' affront at being interrupted faded away, and left confusion in its place. "What  _is_  this about?"

"You not gettin' on some 'legendary' spy's bad books," Porthos started, and Aramis' teeth scraped his lip in indecision, forcing Porthos to grit his own. "An' you're forgettin' that I need to show that to Frey."

Aramis stiffened immediately, returning to the wary cat with a puffed up tail look. "I didn't forget."

"I'm not sayin' he's gonna keep it," Porthos growled, frustrated that Aramis was being so damn difficult about this when it could be so easy.

The two of them could be on the same side for once,  _together_ , where he could keep an eye on him, keep him safe. Time where they would have to know each other better, where they could lay together, where Porthos could hold him, savour him, a gentle pace rather than the frenzy their usual quicksilver meets allowed.

It was so close to fruition that Porthos could almost taste it, sweet and sticky on his tongue.

Aramis gave him a dubious look. "Are you telling me that you're going to give the dagger to Frey and then take it back?"

"He's 5"5 an' keeps 'is wallet in 'is front pocket, piece of piss." There was still a contrariness to Aramis' pout, so Porthos did what he always did when he wanted Aramis to come to him – even if it was in a blur of blades and teeth. Porthos let his eyelids fall to half-mast. "It'd be easier'n dippin' off you, anyway."

Aramis scowled, but his gaze kept darting to the dagger and the door, and Porthos wasn't sure if it was the threat of being hunted by strangers or because Porthos' persistence had finally paid off, but he relaxed ever so slightly.

"You dealt with the guards, didn't you?"

Porthos didn't quite sigh with relief just yet. "Might've had somethin' to do with it."

The smallest smile curved those nibbled lips. "Our styles are quite different,  _mercanario_ , are you sure this can work?"

"Two heads are better'n one."

"Even a hard one like yours?"

"Better hard than inflated."

"My head is not inflated!"

"Could pop it with a pin." Porthos' smile went wide, knowing where this would go. "Pop it when you're writhin' underneath me, all needy cries and beggin'—"

Aramis launched at him but Porthos had already stepped forwards, throwing him off-guard with a hand that captured Aramis' arm and spun him around, dragging his back against him with an arm clamped across Aramis' heaving chest.

This was new for them, it was different, dangerous, because Porthos always let Aramis know he had a way out, and whilst they both knew he could escape, it would show whether Aramis trusted him to let him go.

A second passed, one angrily inhaled breath and one nervous one, Aramis' every muscle tensing in preparation to draw blood and run.

"I do  _not_ beg!"

Porthos' eyes closed as he nosed Aramis' curls, hope a quiet smile that turned into a laugh when Aramis continued to struggle, but this was a different sort of fight.

This one Porthos was determined to win.

"Maybe not in so many words, but inside—" Porthos' hand was over Aramis' heart, and although he pressed there for a moment, he dragged his hand down Aramis' front, splaying his fingers over the twitching muscles of his stomach. "—You  _need_ me."

"Can you claim anything different?" Aramis snarled, and Porthos paused at what was almost an admission, an  _agreement_ , and when he was such a sweet sting in his arms, too.

"No," he replied slowly, and when Aramis wriggled in his slackened hold, held him tight again and muttered against his neck, "But you knew that."

Aramis laughed, but it was short and sharp and just the sensual side of surprised. "Everywhere I go, I expect to find you. You lumber about, like a herd of oxen, but when it counts you appear from the shadows and kill quieter than – well, not me, but most people."

"Are you  _complimentin'_ me?"

"It's a statement of fact," Aramis muttered, and refused to meet his eye when Porthos tried to look at him. "Are we doing this or not?"

Porthos weighed his head to the side, rather liking Aramis pinned against him, his claws forcibly sheathed. "Not."

Aramis froze when Porthos' hand dipped under his clothes and slid against his skin, fingers trailing past hip to curl around dark curls and hardening cock.

It was as much a surprise for Porthos as it was for Aramis, because Porthos had him right where he wanted him, turned on and trapped, and Aramis liked it. This wasn't the stillness of anger or fear, this was anticipation, and all because Porthos had him helpless.

Experimentally, Porthos moved his hand over heated length, and Aramis shivered. Porthos did it again, mouthing at the long line of vulnerable throat, and Aramis moaned.

It hit Porthos like a horse hoof to the ribs, spreading fire in its wake.

Aramis liked it, and hated that he did.

"Porthos." It came out breathy, wracked with indecision, and yet he thrust into Porthos' hand, baring his neck even as he hissed, "I don't…"

His name on his assassin's lips would always make him want to groan, but knowing that it was this, this change of direction that changed him to  _Porthos_ instead of  _mercanario_ , was fascinating. "Tell me to stop an' I will."

That earned him a hot-eyed glare, but it fluttered shut when Porthos scraped his teeth over thumping jugular, Aramis' half-hearted attempts to escape faltering with a quiet, "I hate you."

Porthos snorted, wanting to shake his head at the dichotomy of his assassin. Aramis needed to struggle, to feel like he was fighting back, because the thought of being at Porthos' mercy made him hot, hot with desire and guilt for wanting it.

At some point they were going to sit down and Porthos was going to tell him exactly how much of an adorable little fool he was, because if Aramis hadn't realised that Porthos got off on just how quick and clever he was, he was blind.

Power ran both ways, and getting it was just as good as giving it.

Porthos knew that to get it, to get Aramis astride him with a knife at his throat and nails on his skin, he had to give it, give Aramis a possessive squeeze and bend him over the captain's desk.

So he did just that.

Aramis' hands came up automatically, bracing himself on the dark wood, and although he ground back against Porthos, his mouth opened to snarl, "Porthos."

Porthos' grin was hidden in the shadows, too busy admiring the flush on Aramis' cheeks as he pulled his breeches down and bared him to the moonlight. The flush spread. "Porthos!"

"Yeah?"

Porthos palmed Aramis' arse and felt a twitch against his other hand, chuckling when Aramis gnashed his teeth and didn't say anything.

"René," he murmured in wondering appreciation, "I think you like this."

Aramis jerked, a strangled noise escaping him and a gasped, "Don't call me that."

Porthos tapped two fingers on his rear and paid strict attention to the shiver it earned him. "What're you gonna do about it, René?  _My_ René."

The dam broke and Spanish streamed from Aramis' lips, too fast for him to make out, but he had his ear cocked for the usual  _bastardo_ and  _más_  and anything that might mean he should stop.

There wasn't any of those.

There was something else, and he  _knew_ he wasn't supposed to understand it, because it was whispered against the wood and Aramis' nails were carving desperate tracks through the grain.

" _Soy todo tuyo,_ Porthos,  _por favor!"_

Porthos' jaw dropped, lust flashing like gunpowder through every vein, and he pushed Aramis harder against the desk, fingers tightening on cock and arse alike, and his victorious growl was lost under Aramis' whimpers. " _Mine._ "

Porthos shoved his thigh between Aramis' widening his stance, baring him further, and picked up the pace when Aramis writhed at the indecency of it, shying from Porthos' gaze but rutting into his hand. Escape became excitement, guilt to glory, and Aramis' spine curved beautifully when Porthos pinched his arse only to then tug on his hair.

The surprised keen turned throaty as Porthos pulled Aramis' head up when he came, eyes squeezed shut and face bathed in moonlight, and Porthos drank him in with worship and possession a duelling groan torn from his throat.

Porthos could see him every day for the rest of their lives and it still wouldn't be enough, wouldn't be enough to appreciate him, to hold him, to  _love him._

Aramis' breath shuddered through him, making his arms quake, and Porthos caught him before he could fall against the chilled desk and all the evidence of his mercy. Porthos slowly curved his arms around Aramis' waist, one coming up to cross over his chest, and smiled like an idiot when Aramis curled against him and simply panted.

No harsh words, no painful reminders—

"Try that again and I'll kill you."

Porthos' smile faded a little, but it remained wry when Aramis didn't move away. "S'funny, thought you  _liked it._ "

Aramis brandished the ceremonial dagger with one hand and pulled his breeches up with the other, his scowl losing some of its efficacy when his cheeks were still flushed and his muscles still quivered. "Not another word."

Porthos nodded solemnly, hiding his grin when Aramis peered at him for obeying.

This was only the start, Porthos had time for once, time to win his assassin over, time to let the power change hands again and again, time to  _have_  Aramis in his hands, slowly and sweet and submissive, and deadly and dark and dominant.

Aramis removed the dagger when he realised Porthos would do what he wanted, and after giving him one more suspicious look, returned – very warily, so as to keep up his pretence of not needing him – to slump against Porthos' chest.

Porthos grinned into his hair and cuddled his capricious cat close.

There were papers everywhere, and Aramis' scratch marks showed up bright against the dark wood, making Porthos darkly satisfied. "Captain won't be 'appy when he sees that."

"Maybe he'll add more money to my bounty." Aramis' snicker was surprisingly sleepy and it made Porthos tilt his chin up in concern.

"When'd you last get some kip?"

Aramis smiled lewdly. "Last night, but there wasn't much sleep involved."

Porthos rolled his eyes and grinned when Aramis batted at the hand still gently cupping his jaw. "C'mon, sleep first, thievin' tomorrow."

"It's a bit late to rouse an innkeep," Aramis yawned, and Porthos used it as a chance to brush a kiss against his curls, discreetly adoring him in everything that he was.

"Lucky for you I 'ave a room down the road then, eh?"

Aramis made an appreciative noise, and Porthos chewed on his tongue as he wondered just how much of an idiot he was to show his assassin his home.

Aramis didn't ask any questions as they left, stepping gingerly over sleeping bodies and quietly deprecating the city watch, but his eyes were still alert, darting over doorways and keeping his bearings.

It was to be expected, Porthos hadn't thought Aramis had given himself wholly to him – even if those whispered words of supplication still had him in its heat-like vice.

 _I'm all yours_.

It was as if Aramis had repeated back what Porthos had always thought, but both assumed the other didn't know, didn't  _want_ to know.

If only he knew whether Aramis had meant it or whether it was an admission borne of carnal captivity, said because Porthos had his finger on the trigger and could give him what he wanted.

If only Aramis knew that Porthos meant it, had always meant it, and Porthos would convince him of it.

He started by unlocking his front door, and Aramis hesitated before crossing the threshold of what was clearly a house and not an inn.

Porthos left him there, sighing with relief when he heard the door close, turning to see Aramis prowling around his rooms with all the curiosity of the cat he thought him.

"Oi," he called when Aramis went to touch a sword hanging on his wall, and earned an indignant look that made him smile. "You can look all you want in the mornin', first you need to sleep."

Aramis huffed like a child with a curfew, and stomped over to the fire Porthos had just lit, but Porthos didn't miss the way those bright eyes were still taking everything in.

Including him when he pulled off his shirt and got into bed.

He pretended not to notice the little beam of focused warmth trailing down his back, and plumped his pillow with a happy sigh.

He hadn't slept in a bed for days, and being back in his own was glorious – having Aramis in it would be perfection.

It was as if those dirty dreams were coming to life around him, and he shifted his weight to lean on his side and hide the heavy warmth that started pulling at his hips.

Aramis was looking at him strangely, but it wasn't because of the hand that disappeared under the covers to discreetly rearrange things, but because this would be the first time they had slept together without having sex first.

It made something tight twist in his chest, something that was keen to hold him, to show him that Porthos didn't view their alliance as a quick fling. "Will you just get into bed? You're gonna fall asleep on your feet."

A few taut seconds passed before Aramis muttered Spanish under his breath and started undressing.

Porthos stared and didn't care that he was, but he did grin sheepishly when Aramis raised an eyebrow as he slipped, completely naked, into bed with him.

Somewhere underneath the concern and the adoration was a growl that said,  _mine,_ and it wanted to keep Aramis sated and safe in his bed and screw the mission, screw the legendary spy and the stupid ring, and screw Aramis instead, forever.

Aramis' thigh pushed against his and then halted. "Why are you still wearing clothes?"

Porthos was wondering that very same question himself. "You were skitterin' over the other side of the room, thought you might be scared of seein' me so close an' naked."

"I wasn't scared!" Aramis snapped, rising up onto one elbow. "I've seen you naked many times."

Porthos bit his tongue to keep from smiling, and knocked Aramis' arm with his own, catching him around the shoulders to tug him against his chest. Aramis smacked him, but didn't move. "Yeah," Porthos murmured, delight a soft glow in his smile, "but not without pawin' at each other an' shoutin' abuse."

"You deserve it," Aramis mumbled into his collarbone, but the tickling of his eyelashes told Porthos that he was thinking, not ready for sleep, but perhaps ready for some trust.

A bit, at least. Those leather bands were still around his arms, after all, even if he was attached to Porthos' side like a barnacle.

"Where did you learn to dip so well? The Queen's pendant was wound around my wrist." Aramis said it with some chagrin, as if it had kept him up at night, so Porthos rolled them, bracing his hands either side of Aramis' shoulders and relishing the heated look it earned him.

"The streets, I was a gutter rat for years." Aramis' eyes widened slightly at the frank honesty, because for all they had been doing this for years, there were still many secrets between them. Porthos skimmed his fingers down Aramis' rib cage, tightening on one lean hip to feel the muscle buck. "Helped that I could map your body in my sleep."

Aramis rolled his eyes, but they did soften ever so slightly when Porthos couldn't help but pet him. They hardened when Porthos abruptly kneed his legs apart and asked, "So how's an assassin's terms work?"

"Why, interested?"

"Nah, some guy told me I lumbered like an ox."

Aramis, to Porthos' delight, flushed faintly and looked away, lowering his chin obstinately when Porthos tried to nip him. "It doesn't work the same way," he said, surprising Porthos with an answer at all. "I don't need a name, just a target, a description."

"How'd you get 'em?"

"Pigeon, I had a new step every time I completed the last."

Porthos frowned, all thoughts of tumbling Aramis forgotten as he lowered himself beside him again. "See, that's what I don't get. I had 'em all from the beginning."

Aramis perked up, leaning on Porthos' sternum to look at him. "You know where I have to go next?"

"Where  _we_  'ave to go next," Porthos corrected forcefully, earning a little snort from Aramis. "Yeah, but we'll discuss it in the mornin'."

"Fine,  _mercanario,_ " was the heavy sigh that whisked warm breath over his chest, and Porthos struggled to close his eyes and sleep when all he wanted to do was roll Aramis over again and see if he could drag  _Porthos_ from those tricky lips.

No, it was fine, he had time, Aramis wouldn't disappear in the night, Porthos was sure of it.

He woke to a pain in his arm, guessing it to be only an hour later by the way the moon's light now bathed the room in a glow.

It was a glow that reflected off of Aramis' snarl as he punched Porthos in the arm again and hissed, "You tied me to the bed?!"

"Didn't want you runnin' off is all," Porthos murmured, idly rubbing the bruise on his bicep as he admired the sight of Aramis all pissed off and captured, again.

As if reading his expression, Aramis straightened self-consciously, pushing a hand through his hair to try and give it some sort of order – which was difficult, because Porthos had been playing with it until Aramis had fallen asleep. "I could take it off," Aramis announced confidently.

Porthos fell back with a sigh. "Do you  _ever_ get tired of tellin' me what you could do?"

Aramis leaned over him, giving his relaxed state a wary eye. "Will you ever disagree with me?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"'Cause you're right, I won't stop you from leavin'," Porthos admitted, and when Aramis smiled smugly, threaded his fingers through wild curls and added, "but I will tell you what you don't wanna hear."

 _And I'll do what you pretend you don't want but really, really do,_ was a possessive growl in his head when Aramis shivered.

"Then don't tell me," Aramis said petulantly, making Porthos smile, but he did let him go.

"We do this together or not at all, you need someone to watch your back an' you know I'm the only one you trust to do it, so shut the fuck up an' get back into bed." Porthos lifted an arm in encouragement, and after a good ten seconds of being eyed warily, Aramis undid the tie with a proud sniff.

And then he got back into bed, back into Porthos' arms.

"I  _don't_  trust you," Aramis muttered into his neck, and Porthos hid his pained wince in tangled curls.

"I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rereading Tolkien so it seemed only right to pick up Lovers' Creed again. _Not all those who wander are lost,_ after all, but if you are, feel free to wander by my [Tumblr.](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com)


	3. Never Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't get yourself killed, hm?" Aramis drawled with a brief touch of fingers to Porthos' jaw that trailed down his chest. "I don't want to train a new _mercenario._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the third day of Christmas, ComeHither gave to me... Lovers' Creed, chapter three! We finally meet our shadow, and another, and an unsavoury one.

"It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule."

― J.R.R. Tolkien, _'The Return of the King'_

Porthos wondered why his breakfast tasted better this morning, why the sky seemed brighter, the air fresher, the _birds louder—_

"I wanted that one," Aramis muttered petulantly from his side, one of Porthos' jackets thrown on over his stealth gear so as to blend in with the crowds.

Maybe that was why.

Porthos had woken up to the sight of Aramis' bare arse sneaking around his room, which really wasn't a bad view, but he would have preferred to see it beside him – or beneath him, or above him, or around him; honestly, he wasn't fussed.

Instead, it was bobbing around in the relative darkness of the closed shutters, and Aramis' slender fingers were trailing over everything he owned.

It stirred a very quiet, yearning contentment in his stomach, and it shouldn't.

"Sweet."

Aramis had flinched, flashing a guilty look over his shoulder until he realised that Porthos was grinning, and then he had straightened, jaw setting obstinately. "What?"

"That little red fruit you've been eyein', s'sweet."

Some of the wariness left his stance, until he was just stood, entirely unashamed in his nakedness but for the silver cross about his neck, in the middle of Porthos' room. "What is it?"

"No idea, I get a few every now an' again from a mate."

"Why?"

Porthos offered him a lazy shrug. "Wasn't always a mercenary – well, not on land, anyway."

Rampant curiosity had Aramis half-turning, questions on the tip of his tongue, but before Porthos could spill his life story, he forced himself to add, "They don't last well, mind, so you might as well 'ave it."

Aramis' greed won out, but he hesitated with his fingertips brushing the small fruit, casting another glance over the lean muscle of his shoulder. "There's only one left."

Porthos' smile was too indulgent of the deadly, naked assassin, but then how often did anyone get one of those in their bedroom?

"Go ahead, Frézier will bring more."

Aramis looked as if he was about to ask more questions, but the moment he bit into the tiny fruit, the look on his face burst into pure delight. Aramis' eyes closed, his body softened, and his tongue peeked out to prolong the experience.

Porthos, on the other hand, was wearing a similar expression for different reasons entirely.

Porthos wanted to see that look on Aramis' face every morning, every minute, forever, not just when they were thrown together whenever Porthos could work it, but when they were lounging after a day's work, or _during_ a day's work.

He wanted it always, if only Aramis would give it to him.

There was a smudge of red still on Aramis' lip as he sighed his pleasure, and Porthos couldn't help but beckon him over, wanting to kiss it off but knowing Aramis would probably gut him for it.

Not to mention flay him alive for the bone-deep urge of keeping him forever.

Aramis perched on the end of the bed, and although the luscious length of him was always prepared to bolt, he utterly stilled when Porthos rubbed a gentle thumb over the plump flesh of his lip.

Those wide, fawn-brown eyes were veiled now, whatever emotions that lurked beneath were hidden behind his usual façade, but his reply was a whisper.

"Thank you, _pirata._ "

It had taken some severe effort not to groan and tumble Aramis to the bed, to lick the sweetness of his mouth and the sweetness everywhere else, to promise him a thousand red berries, to promise to feed him them from the comfort of their bed.

Instead, Aramis had spun away from him, blissfully ignorant of the sappy bollocks in Porthos' head, and stood with his hands on his slender hips. "I need clothes."

Porthos had vehemently disagreed.

It was a disagreement that had still somehow ended up better for Porthos than it did for Aramis, and so he didn't think he could complain too much.

"I wanted that one," Aramis repeated as they walked down the street, almost on his tiptoes to see the pastry in Porthos' hands, the one with slightly more sugar.

Even if Aramis hadn't been slicked in Porthos' leather – and he kicked himself for the proprietary happiness that rolled through him at the sight of his too-long sleeves over Aramis' wrists – Porthos would have passed the pastry over immediately.

If only for the slight reel Aramis gave at being indulged, and in the following silence being able to tease, "You're welcome."

Aramis was still frowning when he replied quietly, "Thank you, Porthos."

Porthos nearly tripped over his own feet, but regained them quickly enough when Aramis handed over the smaller pastry before feasting on the sugary one.

Porthos didn't need to eat, he already felt full, full of hope and anxiety and _Aramis._

They had never gone this long without arguing – without Aramis taking offence and starting a fight. He had half a mind to thank this legendary spy just for bringing them together.

This almost felt _normal_ , not just the normality of their hectic lives, but an honest citizen's normal, as if they were heading for their steady job and steady pay, as if they had laid down their dabbles on the wrong side of the law and started fighting for the right one.

"I could easily get ten gold pieces for that," Aramis mused, gaze tracking a man with a flashy sword at his hip. "I don't suppose we have time?"

"No," Porthos sighed disappointedly, only somewhat amused when Aramis gave a half-hearted pout, as if he had expected that answer. Aramis knew him better than he had realised.

"If there's no fun to be had, why aren't we just following your instructions?"

"We are, we're eatin' breakfast."

Aramis gave him an unimpressed look. "You know I meant the contract."

Porthos' chuckle only made Aramis steal a bite of his pastry, and Porthos was all too happy to let him do it – especially when it meant that Aramis darted in close and stayed there.

"If we go through the points too quick, whoever's watchin' will know we're workin' together," he explained, but didn't add that he wanted to keep it quiet for as long as he could, if not forever.

Sometimes he thought he really wasn't suited for this ruthless, cut-throat shit, not anymore.

"We're not being watched," Aramis scoffed arrogantly, but Porthos simply shrugged, always well-aware of that tell-tale prickling at the base of his neck.

"Not us specifically, maybe, but the drop offs, the pick ups, they'll be watched."

Aramis hummed, apparently content to bow to Porthos' theory for once. "You think it's a test?"

"Or a trap."

"I don't get trapped."

Porthos opened his mouth to say a hundred things, starting with a lewd, _I seem to remember you pretty happily trapped last night,_ and ending with a morose, _I know_ , when he drifted away from Porthos' side and didn't mind the distance.

By the time Porthos had wended their paths together again, Aramis had finished his pastry and, thanks to the carefully-kept moustache above his lip, was speckled with sugar.

Porthos wanted to wipe it off, wanted to touch him again, but he couldn't, he knew he couldn't, not out here, and not when it was Aramis, the assassin, the one that constantly said he hated him.

He hadn't said it lately.

Porthos reached out, thumb brushing the short, oiled hairs, and when Aramis distractedly murmured another thank you, Porthos thought his chest might ache from the hope.

"I know it was your home."

Porthos slumped, forgetting for a moment that Aramis wasn't looking through the same rose-tinted glass as he. "That so?"

Aramis didn't look at him, his attention flicking around the street as if looking for something. "Why did you take me there?"

"You were tired."

Something skittered across Aramis' face, but it was gone before Porthos could identify it. "A bit lax, wasn't it?"

Porthos started to worry, worry that Aramis would know why he did it, and laugh, or leave, so he lied. "Figured you already knew."

"Oh," Aramis murmured, and then caught himself, saying more firmly, "Oh, I did, obviously."

Porthos' nerves melted away with a lopsided grin at one of Aramis' very rare slips. "Obviously."

Porthos didn't expect his dubiously raised eyebrow to win a response, but Aramis caught it with a barely-hidden smile that turned into a short, snort of laughter. "Shut up, _mercenario._ "

One step forwards, two steps back, but it was worth it to hear Aramis' laugh, to see him in Porthos' jacket when it hung too heavily off of his narrower shoulders and bared more of his tan chest.

Worth it to have him near.

They stopped outside of the tavern Porthos had first met with Frey, quiet during the daylight hours but still in use. More than a few people were sliding in through the back doors rather than the front, but Porthos had no need to be secretive.

Not on his own, anyway.

"I'll be five minutes, tops."

Porthos held his hand out for the dagger, and something within him trembled when Aramis simply looked at him, when their easy smiles faded to be replaced with something wary.

When they were back on the job again.

"I'm coming too."

"Are you serious? He can't know we're involved." Porthos insisted, and couldn't explain away the sudden flush on his cheeks, hastily adding, "In this, on the mission."

Aramis didn't seem to notice his faux pas, too busy stamping his foot. "I can't even go in?"

"No! Just wait here an' don't get into trouble."

Aramis tugged Porthos' jacket closer around him, the silver of his cross a stark glitter against the dark leather. "That's easier said than done with you around."

"Hey, I get you _outta_ trouble, not into it."

There was a brief, dubious hum as he headed for the tavern, and Porthos could feel Aramis' eyes on his back rather than the other way around for once. It didn't feel as good as he had expected.

In fact, he spent the entirety of the meeting checking the doors for his assassin, worrying about him; so much so that he almost fluffed the dip when Frey turned to leave, satisfied that Porthos had finally gotten the job done.

It was almost a relief to get outside and see Aramis standing exactly where he had been, both of their glowers lifting at the sight of the other – although Porthos could guess that Aramis' reasons were more avaricious than his own.

"Well, that's that bridge burned," Porthos muttered, unsure whether he liked or hated the heavy weight of gold in one pocket and the dagger in the other. Frey would guess it had been him, and even if he didn't, Porthos had no intention of completing the damn contract, despite the heftier bag of gold promised to him.

He wasn't going to be able to get work in this town for a long, long while.

This time it was Aramis who held his hand out, brow raised expectantly. "You've got the ring, it's only fair, _mercanario._ "

Porthos had no qualms with giving it all to Aramis, if it weren't for the fact that it made it seem like leverage, as if they were only working together for this one reason, and without it, they were strangers again.

The sigh that left him as he passed the weapon over sounded far too exhausted for someone who had slept so soundly. "Time to find us a spy."

"I wonder what he looks like," Aramis mused, rubbing his hands together excitedly, and Porthos had to wonder whether this was such a good idea after all.

\--------

The food tasted like shit, the sky was dark, the air was dank, and the only birds that could be heard were the screeches of gulls and moored boats.

"I've heard three different stories about this la Fère in the last hour alone. I couldn't get anything firm on the grey market, the black market, an' fuck all along the harbours."

"I think I blew two of my covers," Aramis muttered despondently. "Not to mention half of my bribe money."

"I've blown all of mine," Porthos groaned. "We've gotten nowhere."

"Not only are we nowhere, I think we're being followed," Aramis murmured, neck craning over his shoulder to peer behind them, the movement pulling his cross out to dangle from his chest.

"For the last hour at least, I know," Porthos muttered, having spotted their shadow almost the moment they had rode into town.

Someone had been waiting for them.

"What should we do?"

Shocked at being asked for his opinion from his arrogant assassin, Porthos faltered. "I 'ave no idea."

Aramis turned back to him with his lower lip caught between his teeth, deep in thought before offering a shrug. "We may as well eat then."

As if agreeing with this idea, his stomach rumbled, and he realised they hadn't eaten since this morning. "What, like, dinner?"

"I imagine it's more _supper_ by this point, but yes. It might throw our tail off the scent, at least."

"Good idea," Porthos murmured absent-mindedly, suddenly keen for the idea of eating a meal with Aramis, once again entertaining this mad fantasy of their apparently normal lives. "Got any preferences?"

Aramis gave a short nod, already heading off in a direction he apparently knew, until they were winding their way down a side street. "There used to be a nice little place down here."

Porthos frowned even as he saw the enticing glow of candles in windows. "Anyone gonna recognise you?"

"No, no," Aramis insisted idly as he pushed through the door. "They're dead."

Porthos paused on the threshold with a blink of surprise, but rather than disgust marring his brow, it was relief clearing it at the knowledge of Aramis' safety – and his deadliness. "Fair enough."

It wasn't as if he hadn't known about Aramis' claws.

It wasn't as if he hadn't felt them.

It was warm inside, normal, _nice,_ words he didn't get to use enough these days. Aramis claimed a table against the wall whilst Porthos got them both a drink, and then they sat down opposite each other.

There was some brief awkwardness as the social nicety of the moment hit them both, the occasion of dinner between an assassin and a mercenary, the careful way one listened while the other chose what to eat.

If Porthos hadn't been starving, he might have been a little embarrassed at how _shy_ the entire situation was making him, but feeling his assassin's eyes on him as he attacked his food was enough to make him stop and take a fortifying gulp of wine instead.

"What?"

Porthos' self-conscious question had Aramis reeling, stammering a reply, "What? Oh, nothing."

"You're watchin' me," he growled in response, practically fiddling with his cup so as to not have to catch Aramis' eye.

There was a pause before Aramis answered, "I'm surprised, I suppose, at how civilised this is."

"Yeah?"

"Aside from your tendency to eat _and_ walk like an oxen, of course."

Porthos' scowl managed to overpower the heat in his cheeks, but it raised a smile from Aramis, one that the candlelight made softer than it was probably was.

"At least I _do_ eat," Porthos replied, adding steeliness to his tone when he noticed that Aramis had barely touched his food. "You're gonna fade away."

Aramis rolled his eyes, but leaned over to spear a piece of meat from Porthos' plate. "There, happy? Over-protective brute."

It was almost affectionate, Porthos was sure of it, even as he was cringing slightly at being so clear in his intentions. Aramis didn't seem to think too much into it though, content with stealing a few more bites and watching the hubbub around the bar, his slender frame as relaxed as it could be whilst in public.

Porthos couldn't stop smiling.

Aramis' attention seemed to flick back to him suddenly, an endearing little furrow in his brow. "What are you grinning so inanely for?"

"Jus' bein' optimistic."

Aramis snorted, stealing the last morsel from Porthos' plate with a pointed look, not realising that Porthos had deliberately left it for him. "Trust you to be optimistic when we've wasted this long."

Wasted was the right word, they could have been doing this all along, all those years ago, instead of Porthos chasing him like a hound chases a fox and doesn't understand why it can't happen.

The thought was sobering.

"Can I ask a question?"

"You will anyway," Aramis replied smoothly, but the probing glance Porthos received said that he remembered Porthos being honest about his childhood.

_Leverage._

Porthos almost didn't ask, not wanting the conversation to be some sort of give and take, but he had always been so curious about the cross hanging about his assassin's neck, and so he gestured to his own throat and said, "You're always wearin' it, an' it seems odd for a…"

"Killer?" Aramis answered with something between a smile and a sneer, as if he wasn't sure whether to be on the defensive or not.

"I pick up my pay packets just the same as you," he reminded, but then weighed his head to the side. "Well, I don't get 'em from _pigeons,_ but y'know what I mean."

This time Aramis' lips twisted into what was almost a smile. "It was my mother's."

Porthos nearly choked on his wine. "You wear your mother's cross when you kill people?"

Aramis looked down, thumb digging into a silver edge. "It reminds me that this is a job, a stepping stone in a vast body of water, and perhaps I cast a few stones but I kill a few weeds, too, and hopefully there will come a time that I can step away from the lake and it will be a little cleaner for my efforts."

Porthos blinked, vaguely entranced and slightly gobsmacked. "S'poetry."

Aramis gave a little shrug, as if Porthos wasn't falling a little bit more in love with him. "It was killing or the cloisters, and the monks didn't approve of my more carnal desires."

For some reason, it didn't make Porthos laugh, and as he watched those slender fingers play with dainty cross, he had to wonder what sort of a decision that was.

"You glad you got out?"

He expected an immediate yes, but instead he saw a younger man thinking about his life choices, those same wild curls and sinful smile, but he was René then, not Aramis, without the older voice shadowed with blood that said softly, "Sometimes."

It broke him, and all Porthos wanted to do was hold him close and wipe the scarlet smudges away, even as he knew that René was long gone and Aramis had earned every swiped scar.

Porthos' hand was halfway across the table before he realised what he was doing.

The front door slammed open and the tavern's raucous noise seemed to suddenly infringe, as if he had been so focused on Aramis he had managed to tune everything else out, but now it tumbled in, breaking the reverent moment and forcing his hand back to his side.

Just like that, he had lost Aramis' attention to something over his shoulder, focused and piercing instead of the vulnerable abstraction of before.

Porthos' sigh almost covered the murmured, "What say you to splitting up?"

"What? We've barely finished eatin'!" It was said desperately, like sand that holds onto the tide as it slips away.

"You know what they say, no rest for the wicked."

Porthos tried to turn in his seat to see what had so thoroughly snared Aramis' attention, but Aramis stood before he could, forcing him to look up at him, to stand as well when it seemed like goodbye.

"We 'ave to meet that guy who thinks he's seen la Fère though?"

"I'll be back before then," Aramis replied dismissively, attention still darting over his shoulder occasionally, as if watching a mark. When he noticed Porthos frowning, he leaned into a hip arrogantly. "It's a… contact, okay? I can't bring you with me, we can't be seen together, remember?"

The food he had eaten seemed to roil in his stomach, a persistent unease that said he shouldn't let Aramis go.

And yet he had gone to see Frey earlier, and Aramis had let him.

"Okay," left Porthos' mouth, but he felt numb in saying it, his limbs like lead when they wanted to be crowding Aramis against the wall and demanding he stay safe.

But Aramis got there first, in his own round-a-bout way.

"Don't get yourself killed, hm? I'd hate to start this search from scratch," Aramis drawled, and any delight that had grown at that first sentence faded away with the second, but Porthos' sullen nod was met with a brief touch of fingers against his cheek that trailed down his chest. "I don't want to train a new _mercenario._ "

Hope flared bright and painful were Aramis touched him, and it only confirmed what he had long known – he'd had a bounty on his head since the first time they had met, and it was Aramis' to collect.

"At the meetin' point, don't be late," Porthos said, and knowing it sounded less like a plea than an instruction when Aramis laughed, loud and uncaring as he slipped off through the crowd.

"I never am!"

It felt wrong, completely fucking wrong to watch Aramis go, like rescuing an exotic animal from poachers and letting it go when it was healed. Aramis was safer with him, Porthos thought he had been happier, but he wanted to leave.

Perhaps that was best.

Porthos' mournful gaze narrowed at the sight of a little shadow peel off to follow Aramis' tracks, the very same little shadow that had been following them all day.

The growl that left Porthos' throat was angry, far too possessive of a creature that wanted to roam, protective of one so beautiful, and so he wrenched himself from their table to barge out the other door and run ahead.

Chest heaving, he lay in wait a street over, only noticing Aramis slip past because it was still _his_ jacket around his shoulders.

Three breaths later Porthos reached out to grab the tail by the scruff of his neck and snarled at the abject surprise on his shockingly youthful face. It was just a kid, dark hair falling in front of wide eyes that narrowed when Porthos demanded to know who his master was.

The boy affected a sneer but it came out more like a pout. "You've been looking for him."

Porthos almost dropped him in surprise. Of all the people he had thought would be hunting for them, he hadn't expected la Fère to be keeping tabs on them. "Take me to him."

The boy shook his head, a difficult feat with Porthos still dangling him off the floor. "I can't, I'll tell you where to go though."

"Yeah, 'cause there ain't gonna be a dozen guys waitin' to pepper me with arrows."

At Porthos' snort, the boy seemed to get strangely affronted. "Athos doesn't cheat."

 _Athos_ , Porthos thought wryly, _needed to get better tails_. "Honest people don't live very long."

The boy wrinkled his nose at that, looking younger still and now entirely unafraid. "He doesn't cheat any _more._ "

Porthos chuckled, reluctantly endeared by the boy's spirit, especially one who worked for a legendary spy. "Fair enough. C'mon then, tell me where."

After a very detailed description of the journey and being slowly let down until his toes could touch the floor again, the boy rubbed his neck and added with surprising good humour, "Should I fetch your friend?"

Porthos grunted a question, distractedly trying to work out where this legendary spy made his base. "You wouldn't be able to find him."

"He was following Marsac."

Porthos froze, remembering that name, having heard it on Aramis' tongue and hating the sound of it, soft and wistful and _loving._ It was the name of a man who Aramis adored and hated in equal measure judging by the one tale Aramis had gifted him.

Marsac, the one who had stabbed Aramis in the back just for a better deal, and left him bleeding in the trophy room for a thieving mercenary to stumble upon.

Aramis never had forgiven him for carrying him all the way to a healer.

But apparently he had forgiven Marsac.

The boy's cough seemed loud in the shadows. "So… Should I get him?"

"No, an' do yourself a favour, kid? Tail 'im again an' I'll gut you." A stubborn glint entered his young eyes, and Porthos renewed his grip on the boy's neck. "Follow me all you want, but not 'im."

The glint disappeared, and annoyingly it was replaced with realisation, but that too faded when Porthos pushed him away with a stern, "Go on, git."

The kid saw too much, no wonder la Fère used him – even if he did have a quick temper and quicker years.

Porthos started to follow the directions he was given and wondered why he was so angry at Aramis, it wasn't as if they had made any vows to each other.

Well, Aramis hadn't, Porthos made them every time he saw him, not just the silent odes of devotion but the hoarse ones too, the desperate grips on his hips and the tangle of their tongues.

Aramis, though, Aramis had deliberately maintained a distance, constantly reminding him that he hated him. Porthos had thought that persistence might win him over, but apparently it was betrayal that got him hot under the collar.

He had said he would come back though, did it make Porthos a fool to believe him?

Or an even bigger one to take him back despite where he had been, what he had _done?_

Now he thought he might actually be sick.

The next left turn brought him to a courtyard, large but shadowed, the fires doused and the trees low overhead. He might have been impressed if he hadn't felt as if a line of metal was sticking out between his shoulder blades.

There was a murmuring in the distant corner, two figures lost in the darkness, but one glanced up with a flash of youthful eyes before scarpering, and Porthos assumed he had found the right place.

"Y'know, usin' kids is slave labour."

"D'Artagnan makes his own decisions," a voice replied, and it suited the shadows he kept, thoughtful and unassuming, like the rest of him when he stepped into the light.

For a spy, he looked pretty unkempt. Scruffy hair that might have been brown had a gentle curl to it, but wild in the way of boredom rather than Aramis' animalistic. So pale that he almost glowed in the moonlight, he was almost unremarkable but for the twist in one lip and a vaguely tamed beard.

But the eyes, those were eyes that Porthos had expected of a spy, sharp and probing. Unkempt he might be, but he was clever, easy in the way he carried himself. It wasn't Aramis' swagger but a surety, this one knew his strengths _and_ his weaknesses; there was no overconfidence here.

Athos de la Fère was a spectacle without seeming like one, and it was that which made Porthos shiver, the sight of him in the still of a chill night.

"So, you're the assassin's shadow."

Porthos shifted his weight slightly, constantly aware of the open space at his back. "Yeah, what of it?"

"I was curious." Athos gave a surprisingly delicate shrug. "It's rare to find camaraderie these days, rarer still between an assassin and a mercenary."

Porthos grunted noncommittally, refusing to give any information – even though Athos was a spy and probably knew everything, and even though Aramis had _gone._ "We 'ave an agreement."

There was a flash of amusement in those knowing eyes, and Porthos wasn't sure if he liked it or not, especially when he wondered what the kid had told him. "Is that so?

Discomfited, Porthos demanded, "Look, what d'you want?"

"Think of it as a meeting of good faith," Athos replied, and inclined his head when Porthos scoffed dubiously. "Unlikely, it's true, but with this _agreement_ of yours, you must know he's becoming too popular, the worst thing for an assassin."

Porthos did know, and it worried him incessantly, but he was starting to worry more over what this legendary spy wanted with him, and so he played it glib.

"'Ave you _seen_ him? 'E could be a street-sweeper and people'd still fall over 'emselves to sleep with 'im."

Something like a smile twitched at Athos' lips, one that made an unassuming face, arresting. "No, I haven't seen him, that was rather the point of this exercise, but once again you have foiled me."

"Again?"

"Those contracts you were so quick to destroy were mine." Athos paused as if counting. "Well, perhaps not all of them, but a fair few."

Unbidden, anger started to flare at Porthos' fingertips, as if they itched to grip his weapon. It was _this_ prick's fault that he had lost half his contacts amongst the mercenaries – a grievance which wasn't lessened by the fact that they were all arseholes anyway.

"What the fuck've you got against 'im?"

"The first was because I knew my name would end up on his list one day, and it seemed easier to end the problem before it started. The second and third the same, by the fourth I had to wonder who it was that protected him." It was definitely amusement that flashed over Athos' face this time. "I never once thought it a mercenary."

"You'd be surprised how often I get overlooked," Porthos offered with a growl. "I told 'im you'd be watchin' 'im, didn't think you'd pre-empt it though."

Athos offered another shrug, and Porthos saw where the kid got his recklessness from. Spies and mercenaries were not meant to be bedfellows – but then, neither were assassins, and they took the term rather literally. "It seemed prudent."

"The kid said you don't cheat."

"Is it cheating?"

It was said with such curiosity and so casually that Porthos was almost lulled into a false sense of security, something about Athos making him think he wasn't about to be attacked.

Not that he believed it for a second, but there was something very odd about this entire situation. "You're cheatin' death."

There was a scoff of a man who had done so more than once. "Assassination is not the normal way to go."

Porthos wasn't sure about the sudden note of admiration that entered his voice. "It is when there's stories like yours around."

Athos gave another almost smile. "They're useful at first, but quickly become a chore."

It was Porthos' turn to be curious. "Why not just do it under a new name?"

Something sly glimmered in those pale eyes. "Who's to say I haven't?"

A laugh was surprised out of him as he weighed his head to the side. "Good point."

Athos offered him half of a mocking bow, and the way it made Porthos want to relax made him uneasy.

He hadn't planned on _liking_ the legendary bastard.

As if Athos had known he was concocting a getaway plan, he stepped a little closer and said, "I liked your little scene with Rochefort, by the way."

Porthos inhaled sharply, and then released it with a resigned laugh, thoughts casting back to what he said to Frey the day he had been given this mission. "I knew his master's master's master would laugh. So what, all this, all the watchin' an' contracts, you planned it all just to meet 'im?"

"I was more interested in meeting you, by the end."

It was a strange want for a man who must have everything, but then perhaps the shadows and the youthful tail said it wasn't material goods he was after.

It was a little sad, in a way.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"One cold-blooded killer to another," Athos murmured sarcastically, earning a smile from Porthos that turned lopsided at the thought of Aramis and his cross. "Do you have my ring?"

"Yeah, s'just— Fuck." Porthos' fingers grasped uselessly in the pocket it was supposed to be in, and suddenly remembered slender fingers trailing down his chest and his own dazed delight distracting him. "The little shit finally managed to dip me."

Athos laughed, and although it sounded rusty, it suited him, slightly dry and surprised. "Perhaps you were distracted."

Porthos shot him a probing glance, not willing to discuss the particulars of his and Aramis' relationship.

Or lack of one.

Athos, for his part, simply shrugged. "I'm in no rush, not anymore."

Porthos scrubbed at his temples and peered through his fingers. "Y'know, you're not what I expected."

"Neither are you, but then we are both often overlooked, especially when it comes to the flashier members of the underworld."

Porthos thought of how quickly Aramis went back to Marsac and had to agree. "You might be right, there."

It seemed almost wrong to introduce them now, not just because Aramis had left, but because, somehow, Porthos had enjoyed this little meeting, enjoyed swapping banter instead of barbs, smiles instead of swords.

It had seemed, for want of a better word, _normal._

"If I may?" Athos interjected before Porthos could make a decision. "The inn you proposed staying at earlier has too many doors, you might try the one opposite the harbourmaster's."

Athos was giving him a reprieve, a chance to think about it, and Porthos couldn't help but grin even when he knew that discussion had happened hours ago. "You really need to stop eavesdroppin'."

"A force of habit, I'm afraid."

"Habits can be broken," Porthos reminded, almost sing-song in fashion, and flicked his fingers from his forehead in a small salute of farewell, and chuckled at how well Athos fell into another half-bow.

It suited him.

Porthos' humour fell with every step he took away from the courtyard, his thoughts returning far too swiftly to Aramis, to his expression when he had left the tavern.

He shouldn't have felt guilty for going to meet Athos, he shouldn't, but he did.

He was definitely a fool.

Porthos waited impatiently at the proposed meeting point, hesitantly confident that Aramis would show, still torn between liking Athos or not, and finding it easier to like him the longer he had to wait.

Athos hadn't kept him hanging about, at least.

When he heard a scuffle down the street, he almost breathed a sigh of relief. "There you are, been waitin'—"

"Sorry, s'been a busy night."

Porthos stared at the unfamiliar man that sloped from the shadows, a man who held out a clenched fist and expected Porthos to take whatever it held.

"Who the fuck're you?"

The man frowned at him, courier's gear coming into focus as he stepped into the moonlight. "You're one of Frey's, right? For the drop?"

It was the penultimate item on his list, the contract he had discarded upon leaving Athos earlier, the instructions that should have been void the second he showed his face.

"Yeah," he said uncertainly, and held out his hand.

"Delivery fee's already been paid," the man said, and released his burden with a friendly nod Porthos' way.

He hadn't seen it, he was too busy trying to breathe, breathe through a noose of slender fingers that slipped about his throat.

Athos' ring had fallen into his palm, and thread through it was Aramis' cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is nearly done, but it's like double the length, and Aramis is playing me about - and us all, as always. HOWEVER, if there's any interest, I thought about writing the prequel Porthos mentions, of how Aramis and Porthos met, how a mercenary quite literally stumbles across a dying assassin?


	4. Not Free, But Wise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have over 6k of fic for the finale of my Assassins' Creed and Tolkien lovechild, finished at last. (Forgive my Spanish.)

> I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which 'Escape' is now so often used. Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it.
> 
> – J.R.R. Tolkien, _'On Fairy Stories'_

The moon was still heavy in the sky, but the dawn would be red.

Porthos was in a rage, every foot hitting the ground with the force of a stampeding bull, his hands clenched into fists, Aramis' cross digging into his palm, and every fibre of his being seething with _betrayal._

Athos' courtyard slumbered now, quiet and unassuming like the man himself, but not for long.

Porthos took but a second to eye the door's hinges, and then his shoulder slammed into the wood, the bulk of it splintering nicely beneath him.

Through the haze of sawdust and the screech of metal, Porthos drew his blade and roared, "What'd you do to 'im?"

Silence answered, which was when Porthos saw Athos sat in an over-stuffed armchair by the fire, glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other, abject surprise opening his usually closed face.

And then his mask fell back into place, and Athos raised an eyebrow, sipping at his wine with a quiet, "Excuse me?"

Porthos huffed an angry laugh, tightening his fingers around the hilt of his sword. "Don't fuckin' bullshit me or this'll end badly for you."

Athos stiffened, his stillness a different thing now, the statuesque posture of an animal threatened. It was fight or flight, and Athos de la Fère wouldn't run.

_Good._

"Don't threaten me in my own home," Athos said very carefully, voice low and cultured, and it managed to both settle and infuriate Porthos in equal measures. "What are you talking about?"

"Aramis, he's gone," Porthos bit out, "someone else met up with me for the drop."

Porthos waited for something sly to cross Athos' face, a glimmer of victory, a cruel laugh, but all he saw was a similar fury to his own as he spat with some distaste, " _What?_ "

It was so very convincing.

"Look, I know you're a spy, you're good at this – very fuckin' good, might I add – but you ain't foolin' me, I know you 'ad somethin' to do with it."

The question was on Athos' tongue, so Porthos flared the fingers of his other hand, the leather strip hanging down until Aramis' cross clinked against Athos' ring.

Athos' frown turned from irritation to confusion, his control over his expression something to behold, but Porthos wasn't having any of it.

Porthos squeezed his hand shut again, the gentle sound of metal harsh against the sting of his sword. Porthos raised it, edge aimed for Athos' head, and although he had expected _some_ sort of a reaction, it wasn't a gently lifted hand to the shadows at Porthos' back.

Porthos remembered too late that Athos always had a pup at his heels.

There was a deadly prickling up his spine, one that whispered of heated barrels and swift swords, of assassins watching him walk away with an offer of trust, and Porthos trembled.

If he failed now, Aramis might die.

Porthos' breath punched out of him, tinged with a hysteria so alien to him that it seemed almost wet and choking.

"Porthos." Athos' mouth shaping his name seemed bizarre, said as it was with a calm insistence and some familiarity. Athos said it again, capturing his attention utterly instead of it tearing itself to pieces between d'Artagnan behind him, Athos in front of him, and Aramis lost somewhere in the shadows.

"Porthos, I cancelled all my contracts out on Aramis."

Porthos' grip wavered, his teeth scoring over his tongue as he replied somewhere between despairing and dubious. "Right, why'd you do somethin' like that?"

Athos tilted his head to the side, apparently determined that Porthos would believe him. "After you helped each other to find me, I thought it was obvious, so I cut my losses and called everything off." Porthos was still staring at him like he was crazy, but Athos frowned in some concerned confusion. "You love him, do you not?"

Porthos' lips parted, shock wracking his system, and on its tail was a desperate denial learned of a lifetime. "No, 'course not, we just work together!"

There must have been something in his reply that gave him away, gave away how much it _hurt_ to deny it, because Athos simply raised an eyebrow, bringing his glass to his lips again. "Do you always break down doors in search of colleagues?"

"Do you always sleep with them?" Asked a sarcastic voice from behind him, and Porthos might have swiped at the little bastard if Athos hadn't flicked a censorious glance over his shoulder.

Porthos noticed that he didn't send him away though.

There was no judgement in Athos' expression, but Porthos still couldn't believe him, couldn't _trust_ him, because trust had to be earned, and even then it could be torn away with one sly smile and a whispered nickname.

Pain made Porthos blurt, "What does it matter anyway, even if I did – not that I'm sayin' I do. What difference does it make to you?"

Something terribly aged and anguished crossed Athos' expression. "I know how it feels to have love taken from you with a knife, be it a stranger's or your own."

There was a story there, the tale of how a man became a spy, of a man that might not have been called Athos once upon a time, but now wasn't the time.

"So you _do_ think someone's taken 'im."

Athos' lips pursed, something making itself known in Athos' expression but Porthos didn't know him well enough to read it. "Yes, in a sense, but I swear to you I had nothing to do with it."

Porthos scrubbed at his face, an edge of Aramis' cross catching him painfully across the bridge of his nose. If it wasn't Athos, he didn't know where to start. "What do I do?"

Athos' inhale was slightly rushed, shocked, but it released carefully, his jaw firming and his gaze sharpening.

"We will find him if it's what you want," Athos declared, but it seemed as if it was said to the shadows at Porthos' back, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed.

He wasn't sure if he could take someone else seeing him act like an idiot over Aramis; Athos was bad enough, but d'Artagnan was worse.

Pleased to have someone on his side, he heaved a steadier breath.

"I'll tear the city down if I 'ave to, they've gotta 'ave 'im in some grotty little base somewhere. I 'ave a few people I can ask, they might've 'eard somethin'." Porthos was lost to organisation, ideas forming and discarding in seconds, anger giving way to determination.

It didn't matter if it killed him, he _would_ find Aramis and bring him home with him.

Porthos ended on a sigh that quavered slightly with exhaustion, lack of sleep finally catching up with him after his planning aloud.

Which was when Athos cleared his throat and offered, "I know where he will be."

Porthos froze, wariness reasserting itself. "What?"

Athos shrugged slightly even as Porthos felt carefully watched for some reason. "I know everything."

"Well—! Why didn't you say before my tirade?"

"I thought you had to get it out of your system, it seemed rude to interrupt," Athos explained simply, and Porthos threw his hands up in the air.

"Fuckin' spies," escaped him before he could help it, and the beginning of Athos' smile disappeared when Porthos asked, "Where is 'e?"

Athos gave him that look again, as if he was missing something obvious and he was concerned about Porthos' eventual reaction.

"Spit it out, Athos."

Athos didn't quite hesitate before saying softly, "He's with Marsac, Porthos."

"What… What d'you mean?"

"That's where he went, where else would he be?"

Porthos shook his head, slowly at first and gaining speed. "No, s'gotta be one of your contracts, you must not 'ave ended 'em properly."

Athos seemed on the verge of scoffing but wisely decided not to, instead leaning into a hip and huffing, as if unsure how to deal with the situation, with Porthos.

The far door clicked open again, and d'Artagnan slipped into the room with a wary glance at Porthos before nodding at Athos.

"I'm sorry, Porthos," Athos said, brow creasing with every word. "Aramis is with Marsac."

"No, 'e can't be." Porthos whirled on d'Artagnan. "Did you _see_ 'em?"

D'Artagnan checked with Athos before saying haltingly, "We keep tabs on a few people, Marsac is one of them. Aramis was seen entering and not leaving."

"Marsac must 'ave 'im under guard, it must be some revenge thing."

Athos and d'Artagnan shared an inscrutable look, and then the latter disappeared as the former approached like a trainer to a flighty horse. "Yes, perhaps that's the case."

"Maybe 'e's threatened 'im so that 'e can't leave."

"Yes," Athos said again in that same strange tone. "Maybe."

Porthos nodded, forcing himself to confidence the closer Athos stood. "Yeah, that'll be it. I just need to— If 'e sees me, he'll be okay."

"Okay," Athos repeated, but there was something dangerously close to pity glinting in his clever eyes, and Porthos had to growl to ignore it.

"Take me to 'im."

Athos watched him for a moment longer and then nodded, strapping a single sword to his hip and a pistol to the jacket he pulled from the wall. It was only a fraction of the weapons he and Aramis carried, but he still looked ready to win a war as they stood in the flicker of the firelight.

The mercenary watched the spy with some detached interest, and became a little more attached when pale eyes met his.

"As you wish."

 

* * *

 

The door was solid, that much was obvious. No simple hinges or thin planks for him to nudge aside with a well-placed shove of his shoulder.

If he had been with Aramis, he would have been scoffed at for not using an open window, but Athos simply murmured, "Would you like to do the honours?"

Porthos might have smiled at being appreciated if he wasn't so anxious, but when his fingers shook from the exertion, Athos wordlessly took his lockpicks and knelt down himself.

Athos might have even been slightly quicker than him.

The spy deftly stepped aside as soon as he was done, somehow knowing that Porthos would barge past otherwise, fingers curling in an eager need to hold Aramis close and check that he was okay.

To scrabble for Marsac's neck and _squeeze._

The first room was empty but for some old, tatty furniture, and yet there was candlelight down the hall, their shadows small until they burst into the next room, Athos hot on his heels as Porthos screeched to a halt with his sword drawn.

His arm fell when he saw Aramis standing there with one hand fiddling with the other. Porthos barely noticed Athos sweeping the room, turning slightly to keep both doors in his eye-line, offering back up without Porthos needing to ask.

He was too busy staring at Aramis, gaze roving over his body, checking for signs of injury, of capture, of anything that might say something was wrong.

Except that everything seemed all right.

And that was wrong.

"Aramis?"

He could hear the broken note to his own voice, heard Aramis' sharp little inhale, heard Athos take a step closer to him before moving away again.

"Hello, _mercenario._ "

The small smile Aramis offered completely broke him, just as everything else came together.

Aramis had chosen to leave.

Porthos' chest heaved once, something cloying inside it, and he only managed one strong denial before adding weakly, "Please."

Aramis flinched, his smile turning sad. "It's okay, he's changed."

"Who?"

Porthos had to hear him say it, and yet when he did, when Aramis said that bastard's name, Porthos thought he would be sick, sick with anger and disappointment and fucking _pessimism._

"Marsac's a good man now, he left his past behind him."

The bitter retort was on his tongue, the chance to strike Aramis down with a hissed, _yes, just like he left you,_ but it wasn't in him, he couldn't bring himself to let Aramis feel the same agony that he was feeling at this very moment.

But along with that came doubt, because as much as he wanted to, he couldn't believe what Aramis was saying, couldn't believe the man he loved when that very same man had run to a criminal who had abandoned him, hurt him.

Run _from_ the one who had picked him up again.

It wasn't his assassin he was hearing, but an Aramis who wanted to be René again.

Just not with him.

Porthos felt a muscle in his eyelid twitch, but he firmed it and his jaw as he turned to Athos. "Is 'e tellin' the truth?"

Athos rocked back on his heels, clearly surprised at being asked, and his mouth opened twice before Aramis demanded, "Why don't you believe me? I'm not lying to you."

Porthos couldn't look at him to say, "I'm not sayin' you are, but _Marsac_ would."

"Marsac wouldn't lie to me!"

Porthos had to look at him now, wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, shake him and hold him close. "Aramis, 'e stabbed you an' left you for dead, just for a few extra coins."

Aramis flushed, partly in embarrassment but mostly in anger, and it was painful to know that he truly meant it this time, the anger wasn't some displaced affection. "He apologised for that. He lives a normal life, Porthos, a good life."

"But you could have that with _me,_ " Porthos insisted with desperate devotion, and clamped his mouth shut immediately when the room skipped a beat, when Aramis' lips parted slightly but nothing came out.

It was obvious, as Athos had said. Aramis had chosen something else, _someone_ else. All this time, he had thought that their skirmishes and jousting were signs that they had a chance to be something more, that he was doing something right.

But Aramis had never made a secret of his feelings.

How many times had he heard _I hate you_ whispered into his skin?

Porthos' eyes closed, wishing beyond all else that this wasn't happening, that Aramis wasn't rejecting him, that Athos wasn't witnessing it, that his heart didn't feel as if it were splitting in two.

The only thing that kept him going – what had always kept him going through every gruelling mission and every empty bed – was that Aramis would have what he had always wanted.

It took a few tries to get the words right.

"If you think 'e's a changed man an'— If 'e makes you _happy,_ Aramis, then go, be happy." Porthos sighed and felt it shudder through him. "S'all I ever wanted for you."

Porthos forced himself to turn and caught Athos' concerned expression, felt the bump of shoulder against his, a barely-there brush of encouragement from a man he scarcely knew, but he turned away from that too when Aramis spoke.

"Wait, _mercenario."_

A cacophony of emotions exploded through him, vain hope at its head like a stallion amidst geldings, so pleased for once to hear that fucking nickname, the same one he had heard and hissed on cold, light days and mewled on warm, dark nights.

But Aramis was just taking off his jacket, the one he had stolen from Porthos' wardrobe that morning, and Porthos could barely stop himself from shaking. "No, keep it, suits you better anyway."

There was a pained huff of sympathy from Athos who still stood so close, and Aramis' attention darted to Athos for a fraction of a second before offering a shit attempt at a smile. "I'll give it back to you at some point. You should have this though, at least; you deserve it."

 _No,_ spilled through Porthos' thoughts, _what I deserved was you._

But Aramis was not a prize to be won, he was a man who made his own choices, as René had chosen to become Aramis, and neither were his to have – but Porthos would love him eternal.

Aramis hesitated before he reached for something in his pocket, and there was some regret in his expression as he said haltingly, "This isn't forever, Porthos."

It was like being repeatedly kicked in the gut, lungs burning as if he was drowning and was allowed a brief gasp of air occasionally, a brief glimpse of Aramis on the far shore before losing him again, losing oxygen.

"No?"

"Of course not," Aramis replied, and some of _his_ assassin reappeared in his smile. "I need to hear about Porthos _el pirata._ "

At his side, Athos raised an eyebrow, and Porthos had to duck his head and make his laugh not seem pained and pleading.

"Yeah, sure, anythin' you want."

Aramis' smile was wider now, reassured of something – but what, Porthos didn't know, because he had been pretty fucking obvious since day one. He had always said he wouldn't trap Aramis, wouldn't capture him when he wanted to be free.

But Aramis had put his faith in Marsac once before, and Porthos wasn't sure if there would be any pieces to pick up this time.

Aramis' hand rooted for something, checking three pockets before his smile dropped. "I can't find the…" Clarity dawned like the red dawn Porthos had predicted, stark and vaguely unsettling. "Marsac took the dagger."

A stream of Spanish left his lips – and now Aramis really was his assassin again, angry and arousing – and Porthos turned to Athos once more, more in surprise than anything else.

Athos lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.

"I was going to say, Marsac is still a renowned thief and a killer, he is in no way a _changed man,_ " Athos explained a little derisively, the sneer suiting the twist of his lip.

Which was an odd thing to notice.

"Fuck's sake," Porthos muttered, already past the idea of Athos apparently knowing everything, until he saw Aramis watching them carefully.

"Who is that, Porthos? Why is he here, why does he _know?"_ Aramis demanded, and there was a pout hinting at his lips and a definite scowl at his brow, the one that Porthos always relished.

Athos simply took Aramis in with a single glance, standing up to the threat of a puffy tail and twitching whiskers, and then they both looked at Porthos for an explanation.

It might have been funny if he wasn't still reeling. "Oh, this is Athos."

Aramis' body language changed immediately, his jaw practically dropping even as he tripped forwards, eyes aglow with interest instead of jealousy.

" _The_ Athos?  _El legendario espía?"_

Porthos was drawn out of his distress to give a gobsmacked laugh. "Y'know you've got the attention span of a fuckin' spaniel."

"Porthos, it's _Athos de la Fère_ , when am I going to get this chance again?"

"You could've 'ad it earlier if you 'adn't run off," Porthos said exasperatedly, which earned him a small smirk from Athos, one that promptly disappeared when Aramis neared like a fox that circled an elegant bird of prey.

"Did you really break into the Queen's bedchamber?"

Athos pulled back slightly, darting a hilariously nervous glance Porthos' way. "Ah, I think we should be following Marsac, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, but I've always wanted to know, _por favor, señor_ ," Aramis pleaded, and Porthos could pinpoint the moment that Athos softened to those wide, gorgeous eyes and that silky snap of Spanish.

Athos licked his lips twice before answering haltingly, "Which Queen?"

Porthos barked a laugh.

"French," Aramis answered immediately, and then added, "and was there someone else with her?"

The smile that spread underneath Athos' narrowed eyes was stunning. "That was you, was it?"

Aramis' matched it, and his laugh was high and delighted as he clapped his hands together. "I knew it was you!"

"I had always wondered why it went suspiciously quiet," Athos remarked, and then a faint flush stained his cheeks. "For a moment."

Aramis' grin was somewhere between lewd and charming. "Well, I had to keep her distracted, _las reinas son exigentes_."

"Okay, we can swap war stories later," Porthos interrupted with a tired chuckle, caught up in a pair of smiles that seemed to balm the ache in his chest, pleased to hear Aramis drop into his native tongue in giddy delight at meeting a myth, pleased to see Athos blush.

He had always known he was a fool for Aramis, but at least he now he knew he wasn't the only one.

Athos gave him a grateful look, but blinked in pleased surprise when Aramis almost babbled, "It's just, well, an honour, _señor_."

"Ah, thank you," Athos murmured, seeming confused when Aramis stayed at his side as they headed out of the building. "It was nice meeting you, too, _monsieur assassin_."

It was such a flustered reply, but Aramis beamed anyway, so clearly delighted that Athos veered a little closer to Porthos' side as if seeking a reprieve.

It was adorable, in a way.

Athos was confident in everything except socialising, but that had to be the trappings of a spy, unlike an assassin who rubbed shoulders with everyone – and sometimes more than just shoulders.

When Athos bumped him accidentally again, Porthos had to ask, "What were you doin' in the Queen's bedchamber?"

"I don't kiss and tell," Aramis answered smugly.

"I wasn't talkin' to you, you cocky little shit."

Athos couldn't quite hide his laughter and it creaked with disuse, and then it happened again as if it surprised him how much he liked the feel of it. "I don't like locked doors."

It was a simple statement that carried a hundred complex meanings, which seemed to symbolise everything that Athos was. "You could've told everyone 'bout it, destroyed a monarchy – a country, even."

"That is exactly why I didn't," Athos answered nonchalantly, with the soft, cultured voice of a man who could bring everything down around their ears. "There's a certain level of responsibility that comes with knowing everything."

Porthos hummed in acknowledgement as he held the door open for them both. "Fair, that's pretty admirable."

Athos wouldn't meet his eye, but Porthos still saw his smile as they stepped outside. It drew one of his own.

Porthos really rather liked him.

Aramis' heavy sigh curled into the cold, night air when Porthos stood beside him, and it seemed so very normal to settle into it, to discuss what they knew about the town, about Marsac, about what Aramis remembered them talking about.

It was so _nice_ to return to normality – what was normal for them, at least – that Porthos almost forgot that Athos was with them until he noticed a faint smile on his face. "What?"

Athos wiped it immediately, but it still glittered in his eyes. "I'm just amazed at how well you two work together, the assassin and the mercenary…"

Porthos grunted a noncommittal answer, acutely aware of what Athos had guessed about them, but Aramis replied brightly, "That sounds like a book!"

"Yeah, well, let's make sure it ain't a tragic endin', eh?"

"Brute." Aramis rolled his eyes, pushing him gently on the arm. "As if you'd let something bad happen."

Porthos couldn't help but smile, and just caught the wider one on Athos' lips before he managed to hide it again.

Those clever eyes saw far too much, it was a good thing Porthos already liked them.

Aramis suggested an address, Porthos another, and then Athos mused aloud, "I would _assume_ closer to the water, _non?"_

Porthos clicked his fingers. "Oh, yeah, the warehouses along the front, good idea."

Athos offered a bare bow, one that Aramis delighted in, and the movement reminded Porthos of something, on the faint pain still in his palm, and he flexed it to hand Aramis his cross.

"Here, you don't look right without it."

Aramis peered at his hand for a moment before touching his neck in surprise. "How—?"

"Can't imagine you gettin' dipped _that_ easily," Porthos joked, but Athos' eyes narrowed and Aramis ducked his head in shame. "What?"

"I believe _distraction_ played a part," Athos drawled, seeming put out on Porthos' behalf.

Porthos didn't like seeing Aramis so small. "Aramis?"

"He kissed me," Aramis answered quietly.

Porthos tensed, and he couldn't stop the snarl that rumbled from the back of his throat. "He dies."

"Shouldn't that be Aramis' choice?" Athos commented quietly, and Porthos had to halt in his tracks.

Aramis was looking at the floor at first, but he slowly met Porthos' eye, something anguished on his face. "He was my… friend."

That pause was almost enough to have Porthos seeing red again.

"He lost the right to that a long time ago, I believe," Athos remarked in that same quiet tone, waiting for Aramis' little nod before adding, "The time to choose will come, Aramis."

Hearing his name made Aramis jerk until the pair of them were staring at each other, and Porthos felt he wasn't privy to a silent conversation that happened.

Of course, Athos knew everything.

It was strangely soothing.

 

* * *

 

Athos cleared his throat when they passed one particular warehouse along the seafront, and Porthos knew better than to doubt him by now. It looked just like all the others, of course, but Athos was never wrong.

This time it was to see both of them step aside to let him shoulder the small door down a side-street.

It seemed they were expected.

A man stood in the soft glow from a nearby torch, and when he turned, his gaze went immediately to Aramis, something greedy in its shadowed depths that made Porthos want to growl.

The urge faded when Aramis stood at one side and Athos at the other, close enough to touch.

"The mercenary I expected, but a stranger?"

The voice itself wasn't repulsive, in fact, even _he_ wasn't, but something brutish and over-protective deep within him hated everything about the man that stood mere feet away.

"You always were too trusting, René."

Aramis flinched so very slightly, and Porthos' attention focused dangerously, focused on the way Marsac stood – slight lean left, right-hand wield, wide blade made for slashing rather than silence, projecting an air of menace. More like a mercenary than an assassin.

Which was when he recognised him.

It had been so brief, just a quick scope around the room when he had been eager to get back to Aramis. "You work for Frey."

Athos started at his side, and when Porthos rose an eyebrow at him, he murmured, " _Quelle surprise,_ apparently there _are_ some things I don't know."

"That's because Frey works for _me,"_ Marsac insisted arrogantly, but this time when Porthos looked at Athos, Athos just scoffed and shook his head.

Porthos wasn't sure where the gun came from.

In that very brief second of distraction, Marsac had raised his pistol and aimed it directly at a pale Aramis' head, and called him over with one taunting, crooked finger. "Come here, René."

Aramis walked before Porthos could demand otherwise, and as much as he hated it, he knew it would keep them all alive a bit longer.

A tiny bit of doubt whispered that Aramis went to Marsac because he loved him.

So Aramis' hiss was like music to his ears. "I should have just shot you when I had the chance, _bastardo_."

Marsac snagged Aramis' wrist with his free hand and pulled him closer, the barrel pushing painfully against Aramis' neck even as his mouth traced Aramis' cheek in a mockery of something intimate. "You can't kill a killer, Aramis, you know that."

The look on Aramis' face was fucking awful, and Porthos realised, realised how desperately Aramis had wanted that normal life but thought his killing had forever tainted it.

Thought himself undeserving, and all because Marsac had told him that he was.

"Why would you ever want to return to that, to being blind to the greater world?"

"It was safer," Aramis replied, forcibly steady, but turned into Marsac as if seeking his touch, one slender hand lifting to rest against Marsac's chest even as it felt as if digging through Porthos' to claw at his heart.

"It was _boring,_ and you know it. You enjoy this life even though you tell yourself you don't, you enjoy the drama, the death."

Aramis' eyes closed as if in pain, and Porthos knew Marsac was right.

About everything except the death.

"S'just cleanin' the lake," Porthos quoted, remembering a man who sat opposite him and hoped for a kinder world.

Aramis whimpered, a slight nod bringing his throat far too close to the glint of gunmetal, and Porthos itched to strangle Marsac's scrawny neck, but he'd offer his own if it would keep Aramis safe.

Beside him, Athos was alive with withheld energy, anger flaring in those cold, sharp eyes, but his voice was strong and steady. "What do you want, Marsac? Money, fame? I can give you it, just let Aramis go."

Marsac sneered at Athos, a pale imitation of a master at it, but Porthos had never been so appreciative in all his life, vowing to repay the legendary spy in any way he wanted.

Now they just had to get out of here alive. It was a standoff and they all knew it, someone had to die, and it was going to be one of their three.

Porthos would give his life for Aramis' in an instant, would have given it long before now if he'd had to, and if it meant begging the same scum that had left Aramis bleeding all those years ago, he would do it.

Aramis had always said he could make him beg.

Just as Porthos opened his mouth, there was a faint scuff in the shadows, and Athos sighed in relief.

"D'Artagnan, so glad you could join us."

Eyes that didn't seem so youthful anymore were narrowed in a deadly frown as they emerged from the darkness, a pistol clasped in one skinny, steady hand.

_We will find him._

It hadn't been an order, but a promise that Athos and d'Artagnan had it under control.

There were some serious perks to being friends with spies, even if they did eavesdrop on everything.

Marsac twisted to see over his shoulder, and Aramis' hand slid down his chest to disappear below his belt, earning a brief groan from Marsac. "Knew you'd change your mind, René, you always were a flirt—"

Marsac cut himself off with a pained gasp, and the ceremonial dagger that had looked so beautiful in Aramis' hand, looked even better sticking out of Marsac's chest.

"I am _not_ René, not anymore," Aramis whispered, and twisted the hilt with a sickening slick of sound before Marsac crumpled to his knees, eyes forever wide as he stared at a renowned assassin who didn't enjoy death.  _"Descanse en pas."_

D'Artagnan lowered his gun, sharing a tight nod with Athos before standing at the door, keeping an eye out for any of Marsac's comrades.

Porthos hadn't looked away from Aramis, and so he saw how long it took for Aramis' gaze to meet his, saw the shame and the guilt and the regret in those wide, fawn-coloured eyes.

"That might've been your best dip yet," Porthos offered, struggling with the urge to hold him close and tell him that everything was okay.

Aramis' laugh was shaky. "I learned from the best."

"C'mere," Porthos sighed, unable to hold back any longer, and almost stumbled backwards when Aramis crashed into him – but without the sting of teeth and harsh words this time, this was tight arms and wet breaths, and Aramis.

Porthos tucked him against his shoulder, where he was meant to be, and a shudder of relief had him looking up to see Athos watching them, something very contemplative in the softness of his mouth.

"I dunno how to thank you, Athos," Porthos murmured, eternally grateful for being able to hold his assassin unharmed, for a dangerous mission that had brought them together at last. Athos didn't answer, didn't move, so Porthos raised a brow and extended an arm in a request to join them.

Porthos was fairly certain he was just joking.

Amusement flashed across Athos' face, eyes downcast for a moment before he looked up again. "In truth, I think I did more bad than good, but if you're happy with the result."

Athos shrugged, but Porthos mused over those few words.

_If you're happy._

Aramis twisted in Porthos' arms, apparently content to stay there but keeping his gaze averted from the floor, and sighed. "More bad than good seems to be my lot in life."

Porthos frowned in concern, not liking that derisive tone, but Athos beat him to an answer. "You can have the best of both worlds, you know."

Aramis sagged a little, denial in every line of his body, but still he asked quietly, "How?"

"Life, our lines of work, they are what you make them, Aramis. It is but a series of choices, and you have made a good one already."

"Cleanin' the pond," Porthos reminded, earning a nod from Athos. "You might wanna stop nickin' things from good people, though."

Aramis heaved a melodramatic sigh, turning to nose against Porthos' neck in a move so undeniably affectionate that Porthos couldn't quite hide his stupid grin – which Athos seemed to smile at for a moment, before clearing his throat.

"I think it best we move on."

Porthos was reluctant to part from Aramis, even if it was to kick Marsac's body into the sea, but Athos held up a hand.

"Everything's taken care of."

Porthos relaxed when he felt Aramis do so, and Athos ducked his head at their two grateful smiles, leading the way out immediately, as if he felt he was intruding on a private moment.

Aramis peeked at him in confusion, but Porthos just pressed a kiss against Aramis' forehead, earning one against his jaw, and the only reason Porthos didn't keep them there forever was because now they had it, forever, they had all the time they wanted.

And all because of a spy who didn't know everything.

 

* * *

 

Aramis stayed tucked against his side as they followed Athos and d'Artagnan away from the seafront, away from a past that would hopefully be forgotten.

Porthos was content to follow blindly, putting his faith in the quiet figure ahead, smiling when Aramis snickered at d'Artagnan's grumbling.

"I'm late, now."

"Yes, well, be thankful you aren't on body detail," Athos murmured, but paused to rest a hand on the boy's shoulder, and d'Artagnan's shy smile said it was a rare but appreciated gesture of affection. "Thank you, d'Artagnan, things would have gone very differently without you."

"Yeah, thanks," Porthos put in, echoed by Aramis, and Athos' lips curved at d'Artagnan's flush.

"Will you be staying here tonight?"

"Yes, she's up early and—"

"You snore," Athos finished for him, making Porthos laugh at the good-natured glare d'Artagnan gave him. "Fine, I'll see you at breakfast."

Porthos was surprised to hear that, surprised to learn of domesticity from a spy who seemed to like his loneliness – seemed to insist he deserved it, and Porthos was getting tired of that mentality.

Until Athos muttered after d'Artagnan's retreating back, "He insists we eat together."

Aramis waved at the shadows and laughed, "Sweet."

Athos didn't deign them with a look, and simply sighed at the remnants of his shattered door as they stepped through – Aramis giving them and Porthos a very pointed look. "We'll have to close this wing off for a while."

Porthos choked on the breath he had been going to use to defend his rush to Aramis' defence. "Wait, this whole buildin' is yours?"

"Yes, I don't use most of it so you'll have to forgive the dust sheets." Athos said it so self-effacingly that Porthos had to nudge him on the arm and tell him not to worry about it.

"Do we get our own room?" Aramis asked excitedly, and Porthos wasn't quite sure what to do with the flush that stained his own cheeks – nor the amused smile that Athos gave when he saw it.

"Yes, help yourself," Athos offered, and hesitated before adding, "It might be wise to stay here and unnoticed until Marsac's associates disperse."

Porthos wondered if it was for more than that. "Yeah, well, Frey'll be out for blood, too."

Aramis didn't notice the small smile Athos gave him, nor Porthos' wider one in return, but he noticed them an hour later, and the next day, and the next few days after that, because Porthos woke up with Aramis in his arms and a ponderous look on his gorgeous, sleep-lined face.

"S'too early for plottin', even if it is a cute look on you."

Aramis swatted him, but it was sleepy and sweet, as he had been for the past week since nibbling his lip at Porthos' bedroom door and Porthos had wordlessly – but with a stupid smile – stepped aside to let him in.

It had happened about three seconds after choosing their own rooms, and Aramis had immediately crawled into his bed and dropped off to an exhausted sleep against Porthos' chest, like the kitten Porthos knew he was.

And Aramis had still been there in the morning, and every morning since.

"I'm not the one doing any plotting for once, _querido_ ," Aramis said coyly, eyes narrowed in good-natured suspicion even as he absent-mindedly trailed a hand over Porthos' chest, his heart rate picking up at both pet and pet name.

They had been doing that a lot lately, as if needing to reacquaint themselves with each other, testing the waters with gentle hands and tender kisses.

It was what Porthos had always wanted from his assassin.

Porthos squeezed one eye shut to peer at the mess of curls hanging over him, twirling one around his finger and tugging it to make Aramis arch, like a sleepy hunting cat. "What're you talkin' about?"

"You," Aramis said simply, but a sly tilt to the smile Porthos loved waking up to. "You're enjoying it here."

"Uh, yeah?" It was said somewhat sheepishly, and Aramis hummed knowingly against his lips before darting away when Porthos would have grabbed him. Instead, embarrassed, he tried to growl, "Thought you wanted to stay with your crush."

"I'm not the only one with a crush," Aramis carolled as he strolled unabashedly out of the room, entirely naked, as always.

Porthos buried his laugh in a pillow when he heard Athos splutter an apology in three languages in the hallway. Aramis gave the most insincere sorry in all three before laughing a genuine one a moment later when d'Artagnan's scampering stopped suddenly and his complaints rang loudly through the walls.

It took another week before Athos stopped being surprised when they hunted him down to eat together, to talk in the morning, to simply relax in each other's company in the evening. More often than not, Athos was in his armchair by the fire, and Aramis was half-sprawled over Porthos on the sofa, the two of them bickering as Athos pretended not to laugh.

It was the longest he and Aramis had spent together and Porthos loved every second of it, just as he loved those twilight hours where Aramis fell asleep in his arms and it was just he and Athos, talking quietly and sipping whiskey, soft smiles bathed in soft glows.

Porthos treasured it all, treasured Aramis' teasing whispers against his skin, treasured Athos' dry remarks that seemed so secretly affectionate, and even treasured d'Artagnan's occasional interruptions and demands for stories.

He didn't want it to end, so when Aramis sleepily piped up on a night that seemed like any other, Porthos winced.

"Should we be going home soon?"

Athos looked up, something worried flashing in those clever eyes for a fraction of a second before it was carefully hidden away again.

Porthos' fingers squeezed the tan, slender ones tangled with his, and then leaned forward to pour more wine into Athos' glass, their knees bumping slightly as he did so.

"It feels like we're already there."

Porthos waited for a reaction, but Aramis cuddled in closer to his side with a sighed, "Good."

Athos' leg rested against Porthos' and stayed there, and his smile was a glimmer in those fascinating, clever eyes. "Good."

The pair of them looked up at a fluttering of wings outside, and then d'Artagnan walked in whilst reading from a scrap of parchment. "They're moving the Prussian crown."

"When?"

"Not for another two weeks."

D'Artagnan grinned when the assassin began to snore, the spy smiled, and the mercenary sighed happily.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me for this long, and thank you to the mysterious anon who first suggested this AU - these three are well-suited to a life of almost-crime and I've loved writing them. As always, I can never leave something alone, so there could be both a prequel and a sequel in the works if there's any interest!


End file.
